55
Premysl Ottokar II, son of Wenceslaus I, carries (like his grandfather) the name of his ancestor Premysl the Plowman—who, in times immemorial, was taken for a husband by Queen Libuse, the legendary foundress of Prague. More than anyone else, except perhaps his grandfather, Premysl Ottokar II felt himself to be the guardian of his kingdom’s greatness. And no one could say he wasn’t worthy in this respect. From the beginning of his reign, Bohemia produced—thanks to its silver deposits—an average annual revenue of 100,000 silver marks, making it one of the richest regions of thirteenth-century Europe: five times richer than Bavaria, for example.
But the man nicknamed “the King of Iron and Gold” (which hardly does justice to the metal that made his fortune) is, like all kings, not content to make do with what he’s got. He knows that the kingdom’s prosperity depends on its silver mines, and wishes to speed up their exploitation. All these sleeping deposits, still untouched, keep him awake at night. He needs more manpower. And the Czechs are peasants, not miners.
Ottokar contemplates Prague, his town. From the heights of his castle, he sees all the markets around the immense Judith Bridge. (This is one of the first bridges built from stone rather than wood, located on the site of the future Charles Bridge.) Little colored dots bustle around goods of all kinds: fabrics, meat, fruit and vegetables, jewels and finely worked metals. All these merchants, Ottokar knows, are German. The Czechs are a people of the land, not of the city, and as he thinks this the king feels perhaps a tinge of regret, if not contempt. Ottokar also knows that it is towns that are responsible for a kingdom’s prestige, and that a nobility worthy of its name does not remain on its lands but forms a court—as the French call it—around the king. But when Ottokar thinks of this great concept of chivalry, he thinks not of France but of the Teutonic Knights, at whose side he fought in Prussia during the Crusade of 1255. Hadn’t he himself founded Konigsberg at the point of his sword? Ottokar turns to Germany because the German courts are, in his eyes, incarnations of nobility and modernity. To bring these qualities to his kingdom, he has decided to begin a vast policy of German immigration to Bohemia, justified by the need for mineworkers. Hundreds of thousands of German colonists will be encouraged to come and settle in his beautiful country. By favoring them, by giving them lands and financial privileges, Ottokar hopes at the same time to find allies who will weaken the position of the greedy and threatening local nobility—the Ryzmburks, the Viteks, the Falkenstejns—for whom he feels only distrust and disdain. History will show, with the rise in power of the German aristocracy in Prague, Jihlava, Kutna Hora, and eventually throughout Bohemia and Moravia, that the strategy worked perfectly, even if Ottokar won’t live long enough to benefit from it.
But in the long term, you’d have to say it was a very bad idea.
56
The day after the Anschluss, Germany, showing uncharacteristic prudence, sends messages of appeasement to Czechoslovakia. The Czechs shouldn’t have the slightest fear of being the next victim, they are told, even if the annexation of Austria and the consequent feeling of being encircled might seem a legitimate source of anxiety.
To avoid any needless tension, orders are given that no German troops in Austria should approach within ten to fifteen miles of the Czech border.
But in the Sudetenland, news of the Anschluss provokes an extraordinary enthusiasm. Suddenly people talk only of their ultimate fantasy: being reunited with the Reich. There are protests and marches everywhere, political tracts and propaganda pamphlets. The pervading atmosphere is of conspiracy. The Czech government gives orders aimed at suppressing this agitation, but they are systematically sabotaged by public workers and German employees. The boycott of the Czech minority in German-language zones is enforced on an unprecedented scale. Benes will write in his memoirs that he was stunned by this mystical romanticism that seemed to suddenly seize all the Germans of Bohemia.
57
The Council of Constance is guilty of having called on our natural enemies—all the Germans who surround us—to fight an unjust war against us, when they have no reason to rise up against us except their unquenchable hatred of our language.
58
Once, and once only, France and Britain said no to Hitler during the Czechoslovak crisis. And even then, the British “no” was rather halfhearted.
May 19, 1938: reports of German troop movements at the Czech border. On May 20, Czechoslovakia orders a partial mobilization of its own forces, sending out a very clear message: if the country is attacked, it will defend itself.
The French, reacting with a firmness we hardly expect of them anymore, immediately declare that they will honor their commitments to Czechoslovakia. In other words, that they will come to the military aid of their allies in the event of a German attack.
The British, unpleasantly surprised by the French attitude, nevertheless fall into line with their ally’s position. With this small qualification: that they will under no circumstances guarantee a military intervention. Chamberlain makes sure that his diplomats do not promise more than is contained in this muddled phrase: “In the event of a European conflict, it is impossible to know if Great Britain will take part.” Not the most decisive of statements.
Hitler will remember these weasel words, but at the time he takes fright and retreats. On May 23, he makes it known that Germany has no aggressive intentions toward Czechoslovakia, and withdraws the troops massed at the border as if nothing had happened. The official line is that these were simply routine maneuvers.
But Hitler is mad with rage. He feels that Benes has humiliated him, and the urge to make war is rising within him. On May 28, he summons the Wehrmacht’s field officers and barks at them: “It is my staunch desire to wipe Czechoslovakia off the map.”
59
Benes, worried by Great Britain’s reluctance to honor its commitments, calls his ambassador in London for the latest news. The conversation, recorded by the German secret service, leaves no doubt about the Czechs’ disillusionment with their British counterparts—beginning with Chamberlain, who gets it with both barrels:
“The dirty bastard just wants us to lick Hitler’s ass!”
“You have to talk him around! Make him get his wits back!”
“The old bugger hasn’t got any wits left. All he does is sniff the Nazis’ shit.”
“So talk to Horace Wilson. Tell him to warn the prime minister that England, too, will be in danger if we don’t show ourselves resolute. Could you make him understand that?”
“How do you want me to talk to Wilson? He’s just a jackal!”
The Germans rush to get the tape recordings to the British. Apparently, Chamberlain was dreadfully upset and never forgave the Czechs.
This same Wilson, Chamberlain’s special advisor, made a bid for conciliation between the Germans and
