Prophets of a New Order - Part VIII
Even before the ink was dry on the Treaty of Washington, work began in Europe on carrying out several of what both the United States and other nations present at the Washington Conference deemed its most important provisions and clauses, namely the issue of plebiscites and free elections. American occupation forces had already laid the groundwork for this even before the conference had begun; as a testament to the magnitude of the task faced by the American occupiers, work was still continuing at a frenzied pace as February 22 came and went. Combined with the great task of policing a multitude of foreign peoples, often with the assistance of local elites and pre-existing institutions, the American soldier was now expected to remain aloof from the rapidly-escalating political clashes underway in the occupied lands. Nervous American G.I.'s or a line of Sherman tanks rapidly became a common sight at political rallies, speeches, and protests in every corner of Europe.
With elections and plebiscites on their way, the political landscape of the Continent transformed overnight. A veritable flood of exiles and closet dissidents or nonconformists washed over the countries of the defeated Syndicalist coalition, as purportedly long-standing syndicalist politicians revealed their true colors in the air of political anarchy. Long-standing rivalries and bitter animosities often flared up into bouts of violence and unrest, while gangs of demobilized soldiers took what advantages they could out of the confusion. For American soldiers, telling the difference between a spirited political gathering and a riot in the making was often a razor's edge. For the people of Europe, sifting setting the honest politician from the great mass of charlatans, demagogues, and lunatics shouting in the streets was unsettlingly difficult.
President Truman, nevertheless, remained confident that a reasonable outcome would eventually manifest itself in Europe, so long as the American military presence steered the occupied countries clear of any disasters. General Eisenhower, from his headquarters in Paris, which had long since degenerated into a maelstrom of political activity, reported that, though there was violence and bitter feuding at times in the streets, society continued to function without undue difficulties: food remained on the shelves, workers carried out their jobs and continued to be paid, and American soldiers remained a tolerable presence for the locals.
In spite of the chaotic and sometimes dangerous situation, many of the leading European political figures in exile saw fit to make their return. On February 15, Pope Julius IV made his return to the country he had once ruled. After receiving a warm reception in Genoa, the Pope continued his roundabout journey south to Rome with a detour to Milan, where the pontiff's escort was beset by mobs of angry industrial workers; a disaster was narrowly averted when the local American commander Oscar Griswold redirected a convoy of mechanized infantry to rescue the beleaguered Swiss Guard and their charge. After a rather uneventful journey through Tuscany in which Julius reacquainted himself with many Italian nobles just-returned from exile, he arrived in the Eternal City and installed himself, much to the American authorities' chagrin, in Vatican City, from where he was almost constantly assailed by angry protestors.
The situation in France was equally unstable. Marshall Jacques Duclos returned to France uncontested leader of the Jacobin remnants, Maurice Thorez having opted to go into exile in Brazil rather than return. Much to the surprise of all, and to the deligh of many, Duclos' control of the surviving Syndicalists and the French left was soon contested by none other than Marceau Pivert, who emerged from his time as a political prisoner following the Jacobin-Sorelian coup more committed to syndicalism than ever. A myth was rapidly gaining wide acceptance in France that Pivert and the Travailleur government would have saved France from total defeat it only Thorez, Duclos, and the Jacobins and Sorelians had not performed a great and treacherous 'stab in the back.' It now seemed only fitting that Pivert be the man to lead France in restoring itself after devastating defeat.
Such was the situation in France during early 1947 that anything seemed possible. So disillusioned were many French citizens with Travailleur and Jacobin alike that they turned to less orthodox candidates. Jack Reed, still technically under American house arrest, was, unbeknownst to him, put forward as a candidate in the upcoming elections. Privately, Truman admitted the idea sounded not entirely ludicrous, as it would free his administration from the dilemma of just exactly what to do with Reed. Though he had remained largely inactive since fleeing the United States after the fall of Chicago, Reed remained an incredibly popular man in the eyes of many Frenchmen who still remembered the rousing speeches he made during the Third International in 1936.
Of course, syndicalism no longer held the monopoly it once did in France. Ensured their protection, at least as much as any political figure could be safe in the chaos of post-war France, several men emerged onto the public stage preaching an end to the syndicalist experiment; though such talk was welcome to a large number of war-weary French, most felt too fondly for the system that had, at least for a brief time, restored the nation to glory. Other politicians, more in tune with the national mood, began to emerge from relative obscurity to challenge the established syndicalist order. Camille Chautemps, a Travailleur member of the National Assembly, eventually became the standard-bearer of a so-called 'New Way' movement. A Travailleur only to keep his career in politics alive, Chautemps hoped to convince the nation that they must now embrace a path of liberal democracy, wedded to 'the spirit of the syndicalist revolution.'
Camille Chautemps, the most influential proponent of embracing liberal democracy in France.
But it was in Germany where the world's attention was focused. On February 27, almost five years since he had been forced to flee the country, Kaiser Wilhelm III sailed into Wilhelmshaven onboard the battleship
Tirpitz, to the great delight of the throngs of civilians gathered to watch the spectacle. The display itself was deliberate in its attempt to evoke memories of Germany's former glory, as the Kaiser had personally spent more than a month engaged in negotiating the passage of the monstrous warship from Suez to Germany. Much had changed since the Kaiser had last set foot on German soil; a half decade of French occupation, Syndicalist rule, and a second invasion and liberation by the United States had left the established order all but wrecked and its people in a dizzying state of uncertainty. But though he had been their leader for not even a full year, the Germans still welcomed their Kaiser joyously. Touring the country, guarded only by a small retinue of devotedly-loyal colonial soldiers, Wilhelm III was met everywhere by massive crowds. After a decade of misfortune, the German people were desperate to rebuild their nation. At the age of sixty-five, the Kaiser struck observers as immensely regal, an excellent symbol of stability and tradition from which the nation could begin to pick up the pieces.
But to a large number of Germans, the Kaiser was just that: a symbol. The disasters of the past were not forgotten, and the way in which Wilhelm appeared to flaunt the trappings of military power seemed indicative that the past would repeat itself. Worse, the monarch possessed even less charisma than his father. Worse, amidst exuberant crowds, Wilhelm's regal bearing was as often a liability as an asset, often likened to a bucket of cold water being poured over one's head. Theodor Heuss, who had gained a large following amongst liberals and disillusioned leftists railed, 'Germany has no more need of emperors, princes, barons. Far better for the German people to rebuild our homes, our cities, than prop up those who led us to this sad condition.' Others found the Kaiser's retinue far more interesting than the Kaiser himself; General Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, a commander in East Africa who had conducted a series of brilliant campaigns to block the British advance across the Congo near the end of the war and head of Wilhelm's bodyguard, garnered the most attention. Boasting a vocabulary that rivaled that of George Patton, Lettow-Vorbeck delighted crowds in a way that seemed to presage a great future in post-war Germany.
In the last week of February, plebiscites were carried out across the length and breadth of Europe in accordance with the terms of the Treaty of Washington. Millions flocked to designated polling stations despite the weather and the state of affairs. With the proceedings scrutinized closely by American military observers, suspicions of fraud and rigging were immediately raised, but Truman assured skeptics that the results would reflect only the wishes of the people who voted. In Denmark, the results demonstrated an overwhelming popular desire to restore Northern Schleswig to Denmark. In Austria, the idea of an Anschluss with Germany was narrowly defeated 46% - 54%. Memel elected to remain a part of Germany by an overwhelming margin of 83% - 17%, eliciting condemnation from unfortunate little Lithuania, which was faced with the loss of the southern half of its territory to Poland following the plebiscites. In a rather startling development, the citizens of Belgium, fed up with their country long serving as a corridor through which German, French, and American armies marched, elected to unite with their northern Dutch neighbors, who accepted the union plan by a slim margin. Truman had hoped since the beginning of the Washington Conference that the two countries could unify and serve as a strong impediment to further conflict between France and Germany. But internal conflicts abounded, and it remained uncertain how long such a state of affairs could be maintained.
Much to the surprise and relief of President Truman, Romania honored its agreements to carry out plebiscites in Bulgaria, Serbia, Albania and Greece. Though the outcomes of these votes were never seriously in doubt, they served as effective cover for what amounted to a transfer of territory - Transylvania to Romania in exchange for independence for the Balkan states - and as a face-saving measure for the Iron Guard regime. Serbs, Albanians, Greeks, and Bulgarians practically overran polling stations set up by American officials in accordance with the Washington Treaty. Upon seeing the results, General DeWitt, the regional United States occupation commander, threatened the referendum commissions he would replace the numbers that indicated ninety-eight percent support for independence with forgeries of his own making.
The new borders of the Balkan states following the plebiscites of February 24-28.
By the standards of the day, the various referendums and plebiscites carried out under the aegis of American occupation and the Treaty of Washington unfolded in good order, with local participation high, accusations of fraud relegated to easily dismissible fringe elements, and violence and intimidation at a minimum. But with the borders of the states of Europe established once again, a fight of an even greater magnitude and importance was about to begin. Europe had chosen its borders, now it must choose its leaders.
