Americans; but if we deny them German reparations they’ll say they can’t pay us.”
“Can the Germans pay what we’re asking?”
“No. My friend Pozzo Keynes says they could pay about a tenth-two billion pounds-though it may cripple their country.”
“Do you mean John Maynard Keynes, the Cambridge economist?”
“Yes. We call him Pozzo.”
“I didn’t know he was one of… your friends.”
Johnny smiled. “Oh, yes, my dear, very much so.”
Maud suffered a moment of envy for Johnny’s cheerful depravity. She had fiercely suppressed her own need for physical love. It was almost two years since a man had touched her lovingly. She felt like an old nun, wrinkled and dried up.
“What a sad look!” Johnny did not miss much. “I hope you’re not in love with Pozzo.”
She laughed, then turned the conversation back to politics. “If we know the Germans can’t pay, why is Lloyd George insisting?”
“I asked him that question myself. I’ve known him quite well since he was minister for munitions. He says all the belligerents will end up paying their own debts, and no one will get any reparations to speak of.”
“So why this pretense?”
“Because in the end the taxpayers of every country will pay for the war-but the politician who tells them that will never win another election.”
Gus went to the daily meetings of the League of Nations Commission. This group had the job of drafting the covenant that would set up the league. Woodrow Wilson himself chaired the committee, and he was in a hurry.
Wilson had completely dominated the first month of the conference. He had swept aside a French agenda putting German reparations at the top and the league at the bottom, and insisted that the league must be part of any treaty signed by him.
The League Commission met at the luxurious Hotel Crillon on the Place de la Concorde. The hydraulic elevators were ancient and slow, and sometimes stopped between floors while the water pressure built up; Gus thought they were very like the European diplomats, who enjoyed nothing more than a leisurely argument, and never came to a decision until forced. He saw with secret amusement that both diplomats and lifts caused the American president to fidget and mutter in furious impatience.
The nineteen commissioners sat around a big table covered with a red cloth, their interpreters behind them whispering in their ears, their aides around the room with files and notebooks. Gus could tell that the Europeans were impressed by his boss’s ability to drive the agenda forward. Some people had said the writing of the covenant would take months, if not years; and others said the nations would never reach agreement. However, to Gus’s delight, after ten days they were close to completing a first draft.
Wilson had to return to the United States on February 14. He would be back soon, but he was determined to have a draft of the covenant to take home.
Unfortunately, the afternoon before he left the French produced a major obstacle. They proposed that the League of Nations should have its own army.
Wilson’s eyes rolled up in despair. “Impossible,” he groaned.
Gus knew why. Congress would not allow American troops to be under someone else’s control.
The French delegate, former prime minister Leon Bourgeois, argued that the league would be ignored if it had no means of enforcing its decisions.
Gus shared Wilson’s frustration. There were other ways for the league to put pressure on rogue nations: diplomacy, economic sanctions, and in the last resort an ad hoc army, to be used for a specific mission, then disbanded when the job was done.
But Bourgeois said none of that would have protected France from Germany. The French could not focus on anything else. Perhaps it was understandable, Gus thought, but it was not the way to create a new world order.
Lord Robert Cecil, who had done a lot of the drafting, raised a bony finger to speak. Wilson nodded: he liked Cecil, who was a strong supporter of the league. Not everyone agreed: Clemenceau, the French prime minister, said that when Cecil smiled he looked like a Chinese dragon. “Forgive me for being blunt,” Cecil said. “The French delegation seems to be saying that because the league may not be as strong as they hoped, they will reject it altogether. May I point out very frankly that in that case there will almost certainly be a bilateral alliance between Great Britain and the United States that would offer nothing to France.”
Gus suppressed a smile. That’s telling ’em, he thought.
Bourgeois looked shocked and withdrew his amendment.
Wilson shot a grateful look across the table at Cecil.
The Japanese delegate, Baron Makino, wanted to speak. Wilson nodded and looked at his watch.
Makino referred to the clause in the covenant, already agreed, that guaranteed religious freedom. He wished to add an amendment to the effect that all members would treat each other’s citizens equally, without racial discrimination.
Wilson’s face froze.
Makino’s speech was eloquent, even in translation. Different races had fought side by side in the war, he pointed out. “A common bond of sympathy and gratitude has been established.” The league would be a great family of nations. Surely they should treat one another as equals?
Gus was worried but not surprised. The Japanese had been talking about this for a week or two. It had already caused consternation among the Australians and the Californians, who wanted to keep the Japanese out of their territories. It had disconcerted Wilson, who did not for one moment think that American Negroes were his equals. Most of all it had upset the British, who ruled undemocratically over hundreds of millions of people of different races and did not want them to think they were as good as their white overlords.
Again it was Cecil who spoke. “Alas, this is a highly controversial matter,” he said, and Gus could almost have believed in his sadness. “The mere suggestion that it might be discussed has already created discord.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the table.
Cecil went on: “Rather than delay the agreement of a draft covenant, perhaps we should postpone discussion of, ah, racial discrimination to a later date.”
The Greek prime minister said: “The whole question of religious liberty is a tricky subject, too. Perhaps we should drop that for the present.”
The Portuguese delegate said: “My government has never yet signed a treaty that did not call on God!”
Cecil, a deeply religious man, said: “Perhaps this time we will all have to take a chance.”
There was a ripple of laughter, and Wilson said with evident relief: “If that’s agreed, let us move on.”
Next day Wilson went to the French foreign ministry at the Quai d’Orsay and read the draft to a plenary session of the peace conference in the famous Clock Room under the enormous chandeliers that looked like stalactites in an Arctic cave. That evening he left for home. The following day was a Saturday, and in the evening Gus went dancing.
Paris after dark was a party town. Food was still scarce but there seemed to be plenty of booze. Young men left their hotel room doors open so that Red Cross nurses could wander in whenever they needed company. Conventional morality seemed to be put on hold. People did not try to hide their love affairs. Effeminate men cast off the pretense of masculinity. Larue’s became the lesbian restaurant. It was said the coal shortage was a myth put about by the French so that everyone would keep warm at night by sleeping with their friends.
Everything was expensive, but Gus had money. He had other advantages, too: he knew Paris and could speak French. He went to the races at St. Cloud, saw La Boheme at the opera, and went to a risque musical called Phi Phi. Because he was close to the president, he was invited to every party.
