Munich Revisited

A slender, well-tailored Irishman last week awakened painful memories in Britain. In the London Sunday Times, 62-year-old Sir Ivone Kirkpatrick, veteran (37 years) career diplomat and sometime (1953-57) Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office, began publication of excerpts from his forthcoming book, The Inner Circle. The first: an eyewitness account of the momentous meeting of the European powers at Munich in September 1938. Kirkpatrick was then first secretary of the British embassy in Berlin, and delegated to help Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain deal with Hitler.

Smited Thigh. An accomplished stylist, Sir Ivone pins his character to the boards like a lepidopterist. There is a first glimpse of Hitler: "Conversation stopped, everyone shrank towards the walls, a door opened and Hitler strode in, looking neither to the right nor the left." In conference the Fuehrer displays manic mannerisms. He pushes back his chair, smites his thigh with frustrated rage, thunders ultimatums, broods in angry silence over folded arms. He inspired "such physical repugnance" that Sir Ivone hated to shake "his podgy hand," and at one point, though knowing it to be "pusillanimous," asked to be excused from attending another session with Hitler.

Gathering in Munich to sign away the life of Czechoslovakia were "the Italians, clearly terrified of being landed by Hitler into a European war; the French, including [Premier] Daladier, resolved to reach agreement at any cost," and "so on edge that from time to time they gave the impression that Czechoslovakia was to be blamed for having brought all this trouble upon us. In this atmosphere Hitler had little difficulty getting his way."

Though winning every point, "Hitler's irritation increases. In the closing stages Goering and other Nazi leaders come into the room. Goering is the center of a conversation and there is some laughter. It is an atmosphere of relaxed tension. The danger of war has been averted. But Hitler sits moodily apart. He wriggles on the sofa, he crosses and uncrosses his legs, he folds his arms and glares around the room. At intervals,' with obvious effort, he joins in a conversation, only to relapse into silence. At last the agreement is ready, for signature. The four statesmen sign. Three look satisfied that they have done the right thing. But Hitler scratches his signature as if he were being asked to sign away his birthright." At the last moment fate tried feebly to avert the inevitable: the signing was delayed "when it was discovered that the pompous inkstand contained no ink."

Bitter Blow. As for his own umbrella-bearing Prime Minister, Sir Ivone confesses, "I was never able to discover what passed through Mr. Chamberlain's mind in this fleeting negotiation, which he conducted entirely alone without, so far as I am aware, warning anyone in advance. One thing is certain. The subsequent [Nazi] seizure of Prague was a bitter blow to Mr. Chamberlain . . . Whenever Hitler's name was mentioned after March 17, the Prime Minister looked as if he had swallowed a bad oyster."

As must all who went through the horror of that time, Sir Ivone gropes for a moral. He predicts that history will regard Munich not as an isolated occurrence, but as the almost inevitable culmination of "inexcusable errors" for which "Britain will certainly come in for criticism." But he also recognizes that at Munich "we were not ready either militarily or psychologically." And later documents, he says, "show conclusively that there is no ground for the belief that Hitler was bluffing and that firmness would have caused him to climb down. On the contrary, he was not only resolved on war but looking forward to it." Even so, concludes Sir Ivone: "Unless a nation is faithful to its principles, its credit must be impaired and its citizens suffer moral damage. Hence, it may be said, no consideration of expediency should have been allowed to dictate a shameful surrender of principle."

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