Scenario

INTERNATIONAL Scenario

Last week the news from Europe took a new, odd twist. If some master of suspense had planned the week's plot--artfully following a big speech (see p. 20) with a timely assassination (see p. 23) a possible conspiracy nipped in the bud (see p. 21) and the Japanese, as usual, providing comic relief (see p. 25)--if it all had been planned ahead of time to create the utmost mystery, it could hardly have been improved upon. As melodrama, as a spectacle--as comedy as low as slapstick, and as tragedy as elevated as the warfare of the gods--as a week of history to stand beside the week that Cortes first invaded Mexico, as a horror story terrifying enough to blur the strongest mind--in all ways last week's news piled sensation on sensation until its followers turned away with a yawn.

Yet strictly according to schedule the reels unwound. In this instalment the world was to learn what the Nazi-Communist Armies' division of Poland was to be. It found out (see p. 29). All manner of meaning lay upon that carving, who got what, and why; how closely Hitler and Stalin were collaborating, and for how long; in which direction, if any, Stalin planned to go--and here was the answer, more perplexing than the problem itself. Next question: What would Hitler say after he had conquered Poland?

After his last speech this leading man of World War II had dashed off into the night, vowing to conquer or die (TIME, Sept. 18). That instalment ended as he plunged into the unknown--where, surprisingly, there were many photographers planted by the Propaganda Ministry. Mighty events transpired; Poland fell; tensely the world waited for the Fuehrer's next speech. Last week he made it (see p. 20). He was in Danzig. He had got it. He had said he would. Again he damned Alfred Duff Cooper as a warmonger, apparently unaware that Duff Cooper had been out of the British Cabinet for twelve months. He was still the same Hitler, always being persecuted, first by those fearful bullies, the Jews, next by that ogre, Dr. Schuschnigg, third by that world power, Czecho-Slovakia, and now by these tyrants, the Poles. But was it for this that bombs were falling on Warsaw? In the next instalment. . .

Pacifists. Eyes turned to that other great pacifist, Benito Mussolini. The last chapter ended with II Duce dangling over the cliff, hanging on to neutrality, saying nothing. When would he rouse himself from the meditation into which the mightiest events of his time appeared to have plunged him? Always dynamic, conqueror of many an Ethiopian and Albanian, utterly fearless in denouncing the Masons, a great fellow for jumping over bayonets at Fascist parties (or, better still, having his subordinates do it) how would II Duce measure up to the strain of war?

He spoke (see p. 22). The world had expected him to speak for peace. He did so. But the Duce who had thundered at 20,000 Blackshirts at the cornerstoning of a new town outside Rome, who had stuck out his jaw and sounded off about almost every incident in Europe for 20 years-- II Duce now spoke to 130 Fascist functionaries in a provincial capital, and limited himself to 600 words, 100 of which complained about attacks upon himself. The world lost interest; the pain in Warsaw seemed more severe than the heartaches of even the Duce.

Reels unwound; anti-climaxes mounted. Everyone had known that when Poland fell, pressure on Rumania would increase. It increased. It was no surprise that Russia, after taking three-fifths of Poland, exerted pressure on the little Baltic countries. Dr. Karl Selter, the tall, versatile Foreign Minister of Estonia, rushed to Moscow, as did an Estonian trade delegation--and Estonia (pop. 1,126,413) with three divisions in its Army, was bound to take whatever bargain Stalin had to offer. Excuse for Russia's displeasure was that Estonians had let an interned Polish submarine, Orzel, escape from the port of Tallinn. After a midnight interview at the Kremlin with Foreign Commissar Molotov, Dr. Selter flew back to his country, with what news, no one knew.

Everyone had agreed that war in Europe would strengthen Russia's position: to Moscow last week there hurried a secret agent from Yugoslavia, moving so slyly that all correspondents knew he was there; not hurrying, but dawdling, went Turkey's Foreign Minister Shokru Saracoglu, who seemed no more eager to reach the Kremlin than a patient on his way to a doctor whose last several patients had died.

Last week came a sharper sign of Russian strength to frighten Finland: Russia closed the Neva River that flows past Leningrad to Finnish traffic.

On schedule, the British released a Blue Book placing the guilt of war (see p. 26); on schedule Japanese and Russians met to confirm a truce on the border of Outer Mongolia; on schedule the war's first hero appeared, the Mayor of Warsaw, who rode through the besieged, debris-littered city to hearten its defenders, now & then taking to the radio and announcing grimly that Warsaw was still holding out.

Unreality. Yet with all these fulfillments, unreality hung over last week's drama, a vague hysteria, marked by applause at the wrong time, cheers for the wrong speeches, doubts about facts & figures, suspicions of the war, distrust at peace rumors, skepticism at news of victories, doubts of the importance of defeats.

All speeches and all assassinations, all the communiques describing the Red Army's triumphal march through a defeated nation, the rumors that much-purged Karl Radek would direct the Sovietization of Eastern Poland--all these no less than the terse communiques from the Western Front, no less than the intellectual somersaults performed by Communists, no less than military strategists writing of future campaigns, contributed to the war's unreality. It had long been believed that when war placed a strain on Germany, Czecho-Slovak unrest would increase -- but many a reader thought "propaganda" when Czecho-Slovak unrest was reported.

Unreal was Hitler's speech. For years the Fuehrer's eloquence had been fired by the menace of Bolshevism; every city in Germany had heard that impassioned voice tirading against "the murderous scum," "the bloodthirsty rabble" of Moscow. Now the Fuehrer had Danzig, but he was like Bryan plumping for the gold standard, like Ingersoll coming out for the Virgin Birth, like Billy Sunday urging a return to the old-time saloon.

Reality. The realities of war are suffering and death. No nonsensical tirades could conceal the fact that 17 days after Germany announced Warsaw had fallen, citizens were dying in that city, bombs were still falling, shells were still shattering the suburbs. The radio announcer, awaiting a death as final as that of Premier Calinescu or General Fritsch, could expect no state funeral when he fell. There were none for the 1,000 civilians whose bodies, he reported, were lying in the streets. When the radio broke down under gunfire, he announced that it would soon be fixed, like a man repairing a puncture. Half the city, said he, more quietly than any football game was ever announced, was in flames. One hospital remained. And only death awaited the defenders.

"These have been the most terrible hours since the siege began," he went on. "Despite the terrible loss of human lives, Warsaw will be defended. We will never give in. ... German planes bombed Little Jesus [Hospital] a few moments ago."

The War had dwarfed its spokesmen. What did it matter if British and French answers to Hitler pointed out flaws in the Fuhrer's logic? What did it matter if his arguments were inconsistent, if he contradicted speeches made before? What did it matter if Stalin reversed his own policies, if his followers denied one day what they had said the day before?

As much as they scrapped what the democracies called economics, the totalitarian countries scrapped what democracies called common sense. To ride the whirlwind of change, solemnly to preach howling absurdities, cheerfully to embrace glaring contradiction--all this served to conceal the war's aims, to hide its agony, to blur its issues. Guns and submarines and planes threatened the national existence of Britain and France. But speeches and explanations were directed like bombs against their reason.

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