The Phoenix Land (28 page)

Teleki and Adorján took up their sentry-posts and, sitting on the bench, I began my report. It was like a theatrical farce. ‘Robert Cecil thinks…’ I would start and then, ‘Sorry!’ as I jumped up to embrace the nearest tree. Then I would start again, ‘Mr Bowie, chief secretary of the Unitarian Church, promised that … Sorry!’ and off to the tree again. This went on for an hour and a half until, in spite of it all I managed to relate
everything
I had to say and also receive Bethlen’s messages for Budapest.

That evening I was well enough to board the train and by the time I arrived home I was quite fit again. It seemed that having to deliver this fatal report had saved me from the worst effects of oyster poisoning from which people have been known to die.

When I accepted the portfolio of foreign minister I had no detailed programme ready, for, as I have already mentioned, the
offer came as a complete surprise. As it happened, this was no great matter at a time when little Hungary was like an orphan standing forlornly in a corner of Europe, friendless and
surrounded
by enemies. It was then an open question as to which great power might be won over, and indeed, whether anyone could be won over at all. All we could do was to wait until
matters
settled down, for at that time the conquering nations formed a united front antagonistic to Hungary. That this was so was clear enough at the meetings of the Council of Ambassadors in Paris. Much time would have to pass before any of them could be induced to act without consulting the others.

All the same, there were signs that some countries might be prepared to act independently where their own commercial interests were concerned. For example, it was certain that the signing of the contract with Anglo-Persian Oil was effected with the knowledge of the British Foreign Office; and this had been brought about by Hungarian initiative. Some months after I had returned to England an important commercial proposition was received from France. It was linked to some political proposals and was brought to us by Dr Halmos, a businessman prominent in French commercial circles who had delivered the Millerand letter and who was therefore already known to us. Dr ‘Almosz’, as the French pronounced his name
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was a friend of Loucheur. His proposition was that the Hungarian State Railways should be leased to a French commercial company that would undertake to repair and put them in good working order if the Hungarian government would grant a long enough lease. The political quid pro quo was that, in return for this concession, France would take Hungary’s side in all international disputes and would
support
her interests.

The offer was put forward by Gyula Andrássy, and our
discussions
, if I remember correctly after all these years, were attended by Pál Teleki, Bethlen, Nagyatádi-Szabó and, I fancy, Apponyi. At that time France, under the premiership of Poincaré, was the Allied power most interested in Europe. Italy’s attention was concentrated on her newly acquired foreign possessions and her uneasy relations with Yugoslavia, and so any question unrelated to these two preoccupations held little
interest for her. It was also significant that foreign business in France had always been dictated by her foreign policy, far more than was the case in England. It had always been so. French investment in the Suez Canal, the Panama Canal, and more recently in the Russian loans, had all been financed at the demand of the Quai d’Orsay, sometimes involving great losses. It was therefore clear that the proposed contract with the Hungarian State Railways (Magyar Allami Vasutak – MAV) was not only a business proposition but also had a political purpose.

It was a difficult question. For the Hungarian government to allow the direction of the national transport system to be handed over to the representatives of a foreign power required very
serious
consideration. It had not to be forgotten that when a state as small and weak as Hungary made a deal with a powerful foreign power then the agreement would always be one-sided no matter what the terms of the contract might specify. In the event of disagreement the stronger party would always get its own way. Nevertheless I was personally in favour of the idea as I believed that the commercial enterprise would find itself obliged to work to the advantage of Hungary if only to safeguard its profits. Furthermore, knowing the French and their many great qualities – mainly courage and a sense of honour – as well as their faults – vanity and greed – I felt that if they were treated rightly they could be guided to follow a correct path. Later on the Hungarians did lease not only the state railways but also the entire State economy so as to obtain a loan from the League of Nations and, as far as I know, no harm came of it. So, provided the text of the agreement was unexceptional, I proposed that we accept the proposition. I am sure that it would have given us a great advantage in our handling of foreign affairs and, at the very least, would have meant an early end to the desolate state of the Hungarian economy.

However the meeting decided the other way.

There was a long discussion, dominated by the most legalistic of our politicians who argued that a sovereign power could not abrogate, even temporarily, control over the running of its trains. They based their opposition almost entirely upon this one point.

It may be that they were right. It is certain that such a contract could only be successful if handled with great tact and if the lesser power understood and was able to take advantage of the psychology of the greater. If not, only trouble would ensue. With my upbringing largely influenced by French culture I was hopeful then; but today I cannot tell if I was right in that assumption. There is no way of telling and, in any case, no reason to waste words on what never happened. To speculate on what might have been is a futile exercise if the ultimate results of commission or omission are not later made clear. As it was, the Hungarian railways were soon enough running as before; and so all one can say today is that, if we had had the protection of France, our relations with our new neighbours would probably have been different from what they subsequently were without it.

Chapter Two

On the afternoon I accepted the post of foreign minister only one decision was made: that we must at once make contact with the newly-created states and try to establish friendly relations. My guiding principle was that even though the Great Powers would decide the all-important terms of the peace treaty, our problems with our neighbours would only be resolved by agreement between ourselves. This would still be true even if we succeeded in getting into closer touch with one or more of those Great Powers. Such contact would only have its effect on major issues, and it would be unthinkable even to try and involve their
interest
in run-of-the-mill petty grievances. Our daily existence required that we made common cause with at least one of our new neighbours in a way agreeable to both parties. At that time it was clear that, with some obvious exceptions, this should not prove too difficult. No matter what border changes might be effected, our peoples would always have to live next to each other and, apart from being linked by the geology of the former Hungary and its existing water-power system, all these peoples were still economically independent.

Our relations with Austria were straightforward enough, although it was true that the question of the Burgenland would soon have to be discussed. The Treaty of St Germain had shaved off a narrow strip of land on the borders of the Sopron-Zala and Vas counties and handed it over to Austria. This decision was quite meaningless, for it affected only 4,020 square kilometres of land, just a few miles wide and a hundred kilometres long. It was an absurdity, as there was no railway line and no main road
crossing
the area: one could only travel there on foot, stepping out of it every now and then, since every stream and every mountain
ridge traversed it crosswise. It had no name, but like a foundling had to have one invented for it, so the good Austrians called it the ‘Burgenland’ after the string of border fortresses constructed along its length by successive Hungarian kings during the Middle Ages as a defence against marauding Germans. Its
cession
to Austria was perhaps one of the silliest decisions to be incorporated in the various Versailles treaties, but, like all the rest, it had to be signed without demur at Trianon.

It was due to be handed over to Austria at the end of August 1921. At this time it seemed no more than a distant storm cloud on the western horizon, and we still hoped that it might be avoided, perhaps in return for some economic concessions. After all, it consisted of little more than forestland, of which Austria already had plenty. This was not a mere pipedream, for many highly-placed Austrians felt the same way, realizing that it would be senseless to antagonize their former comrades-in-arms for the sake of such a small piece of territory which, in any case, would still be dependent on Hungary for its food supplies.

Relations with Yugoslavia were tense. The Serbs were still in occupation of the whole of the county of Baranya, although, as they were entitled only to that part south of Mohács between the Danube and the Drava, the rest would have to be returned to us. This they were reluctant to do, mainly because of the coalmines around Pécs. As a result, they tried to influence the local
inhabitants
to proclaim a ‘Republic of Baranya’ with the intention of then getting this new ‘republic’ to write to the Council of Ambassadors demanding to be incorporated in the new Yugoslavia. Unfortunately for them, the good people of Baranya refused to cooperate, and the plan failed.

Our relations with Yugoslavia were also poisoned by the expulsion of many thousands of Hungarian families and the rough treatment meted out to them.

With Romania, matters were even worse. Painful memories of the occupation of Budapest were still fresh in the memory. When they withdrew, and even before this occurred, the Romanian troops removed almost the entire rolling stock of the railways, factories were dismantled and their machinery looted, as well as thousands of telephones and all of the farm animals from the
Great Plain. And it was not only from the State lands and those of the great landowners that everything was stolen, but they also removed every last calf, indeed every animal they could find, from thousands of small farmers. Only south of Gyoma were the peasants able to save some part of their stock.

This was not generally known at the time, and I have never since seen it written about. This is why I now tell the story of what I saw with my own eyes.

At the beginning of November 1919, just after the Romanian armies had withdrawn, I had occasion to visit Nagykigyos
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. There were no trains – since the wagons and locomotives had all been looted – but I managed to get there by a contraption known as a railcar, which was simply an old taxi fitted with iron wheels to fit the track. Until I reached Gyoma I did not see a single animal, not even poultry. In some places I saw farming folk – men and women – doing their best to hoe fields that had been left fallow: at others they were standing forlornly about, helpless beside the unploughed fields. Beyond Gyoma everything was different. They were ploughing away with horses, and even oxen; and here and there one could see a few hens clustered around the farmhouses. I asked in Nagykigyos why this was, and they told me that, south of the desolate area I had noticed, the Romanian general Mosoiu had been in command and that he had not only forbidden all looting but had also punished it severely.

This proved a most interesting truth: namely how decisive can be the will of a strong commander, and that, given goodwill and energetic leadership, the mob can just as easily be led to good as to evil.

From the Romanian point of view, the looting of the Hungarian countryside in 1919 was a significant political error. This was the one moment in history when a true cornerstone for peace could have been laid between the peoples of Hungary and Romania. Hungary had joyfully welcomed the invading Romanian armies as liberators and, if the Romanians had accepted that role and refrained from looting and destruction, their behaviour would have gone so far towards healing the
centuries
-old rift between the two nations that mutual goodwill and brotherly understanding might in time have finally been achieved.

In the first days of the occupation, and as soon as I heard about the looting, I went to see Dr János Erdélyi, who had just been appointed governor of Budapest and who was living in the Hungaria Hotel. I also called upon Mr Diamandi, at the Gellert Hotel I fancy, who was the Romanian diplomat appointed as liaison officer with the army, told him what I felt and asked him to telegraph my views to Bucharest. I also wanted to reach Gödöllo, where Crown Prince Carol of Romania was rumoured to be staying, but failed to obtain the necessary permission. The wire was sent, but a few days later a negative answer was received from Prime Minister Bratianu. This was shown to me by Erdélyi. It declared that ‘Romania cannot be built otherwise, only in this way’, which was their way of saying: ‘only with loot from Hungary’.

And so the systematic looting grew worse and ever more all embracing. The museums and the Royal Palace were protected by the American Colonel Bandholtz, but he could not defend the factories or the country’s agricultural heritage. The mood of the Hungarians turned swiftly to hatred; and so the psychological moment passed and was irretrievably lost. This was a terrible pity, for in many ways a country’s foreign policy will depend on the mood of its people, while material considerations are dwarfed in comparison. This has been especially true in modern times when international relations are no longer arranged by the cool objectivity of diplomats but rather the passions and hatreds of the crowd. These events were clear proof of that.

It was at this time, when the deep resentment of the Hungarians over the Romanian occupation had reduced
relations
between the two countries to their most explosive, that the situation was made even wore by the expulsion of more than a hundred thousand Hungarians from Transylvania. In their
foolhardy
ignorance of local facts, the authors of the peace treaty had linked automatic citizenship of the newly created or newly enlarged neighbouring states with a notion of ‘residency’ as opposed to domicile. The result, in Transylvania at least, was that countless clerks, teachers, professors, shopkeepers and craftsmen who for decades had lived and worked and acquired property in the towns or districts that been transferred to
Romania now found themselves deprived of civil rights and destitute. Under the pre-war Hungarian administration, no such notion of ‘residency’ had existed except for those who wanted to play some part in the local administration and who needed to prove their eligibility. In addition, many people found
themselves
deprived of their heritage because, although born in Transylvania, they had spent much of their lives elsewhere and so did not figure on the residence lists. These were all expelled from the land of their birth and pushed across the border.

There was something else that added to the numbers of those expelled. In the early summer of 1919, apparently because Budapest was then under Communist rule, Maniu decreed that all salaried officials in Transylvania, which everyone knew was soon to be ceded to Romania under the forthcoming peace treaty, must swear allegiance to their new state. At this time there was still no treaty concerning these former Hungarian territories, and even though the so-called ‘London Protocol’ had promised Transylvania to Romania, there was as yet no legal document establishing the change of sovereignty. If the Romanians had wished to provoke non-cooperation they could not, knowing the Hungarians’ inbred respect for legality, have found a better way of doing it. Unanimously, all those affected by the new ruling declared they would swear nothing until the peace treaty had itself been signed and ratified. And so it happened that university and high school professors, teachers, and civil servants at all levels suddenly found themselves ordered to leave the country,
sometimes
with barely twenty-four hours’ notice. In this way, countless men and women born in Transylvania were forced to flee with their families, leaving behind their homes and all they possessed. Only if they had complied with Maniu’s technically illegal decree would they have kept the right to stay in their native land.

In their hundreds they arrived at the frontiers; and there the Hungarian government denied them entry because the now bankrupt country could neither find a place for them nor provide for their keep. Their fate was terrible. Sometimes they were forced to stay for weeks camping at the frontier until the Hungarian state took pity on them and let them in, whereupon they became squatters on the outskirts of Budapest, living in
abandoned railway wagons which had been left in disused
sidings
, or in now empty barracks. Many spent years in these appalling conditions until the Refugee Bureau, which had been formed to solve this problem, was finally able to restore to them the dignity of somewhere decent to live.

Of all the state employees, only the railway workers were spared this fate, for they were better organized than the others and were also realists who did not bother with legalistic quibbles, like those of the educated middle-class. Sensibly, they took their new oath of allegiance and so were able to stay in their homes and continue to earn their daily bread and provide for their families.

This awareness of the sufferings of all those Hungarians expelled from their homes poisoned Hungarian public opinion. Almost every refugee had relatives or friends in what still remained of Hungary after Trianon. Everywhere one heard tales of atrocities, some no doubt exaggerated; but they all added to a climate of opinion that made it impossible for Hungarian
politicians
to make any approach to the Romanians.

Feeling towards Czechoslovakia was less strong than it was towards the other two countries that were later to form the ‘Little Entente’.

It was true that refugees also came from there, but in much smaller numbers; Czech troops had not ravaged Hungarian farmland, and memories were still fresh of the days when the Red Army under Stromfeld and Julier swept the Czechs from Northern Hungary. Although it was not much spoken of, this did much to restore the diminished self-esteem of the Hungarians. In addition the Czech administration, most of whose officials had been trained under the admirable Austrian system, handled the situation according to the accepted European principles. The new head of state, Professor Masaryk, wanted to respect not only the letter but also the spirit behind the terms governing the
treatment
of the ethnic minorities. In this he was not universally successful and indeed found himself occasionally frustrated by various statistical or administrative stratagems beyond his
control
. Nevertheless, it was certain that far fewer complaints came from the Hungarian minorities in Slovensko than did from those in our eastern and southern neighbours.