But underneath the festive atmosphere of these banquets and convivial parties, the air crackled with the menace of the nearby Nazis. Even the most earnest and optimistic pacifists across the continent had finally succumbed to the grim inevitability that Hitler would not be appeased.
It was the height of summer, and the northern days stretched long over the pastures and picturesque farms of the surrounding region. From our ambassadorial residence, it was only a short, pleasant car ride past fresh-tilled fields and stone farmhouses to the banks of the Moselle River. But the idyllic summer views offered a false sense of peace; just on the other side loomed Hitler’s land. With our naked eyes, we watched as the Nazi soldiers practiced their rigorous drills and marching. We saw their tanks tattooed with the large, spiderlike swastikas, their treaded wheels churning up the fertile dirt and grass. Hitler’s forces were mobilizing, and we could see that they would soon be ready to march forward across a bracing continent.
And we heard from Hitler as well. Being just miles from Germany, we heard the man’s nightly rants across our local radio waves. I would feel queasy as I listened to his biting tirades. Though I did not speak his language, I knew well enough what his vitriol contained: Pronouncements that the Reich had been cheated out of its land, betrayed by unfair treaties orchestrated by the Jews. Cries that the Master Race needed land for its people. Brazen promises to take back rightful German territory from Czechoslovakia and France and Poland and anywhere else.
I grew more anxious with each passing day, even as Joe and I went about our ambassadorial duties, awaiting word from Washington and our president that we should do otherwise. It seemed as if we were all living in a state of illusory tarrying, a daze, biding our time as the northern European summer passed with parties hosted by Grand Duchess Charlotte and golf outings with King Leopold. We sipped Belgian beer while staring over the dark waves of the North Sea. But when would the storm clouds appear on that idyllic horizon? When would the inevitable reckoning come?
* * *
—
It came in the autumn. A front of crisp air had settled over our northern region, bringing with it an abrupt shortening of days, and we were seated in our drawing room under wool blankets when the telegram arrived. “News from London, sir,” Joe’s secretary said, barging into the room, breathless. “Hitler has seized the Sudetenland from Czechoslovakia…we’re awaiting the response from England.”
I huddled with Joe as we clicked the radio on, feeling that the report was devastating and shocking, but also the most inevitable news that one could expect to hear. Over the next few breathless days, England’s Neville Chamberlain, in a desperate attempt to pacify the Nazis, flew to Munich and met with Hitler, where the leader of England gave the German madman free rein to steal from another sovereign nation. “It’s over now,” I said, turning from the radio to stare forlornly at my husband. The summer idyll, the dazed denial, the foolish hopes that somehow war might be averted—it was all shattered.
Joe nodded. After a pause, still frowning, he said, “Hitler sees that he won’t be stopped.”
“Where will he go next?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Joe said, running his fingers absently along the fringe of the wool blanket. “To the east? To the west? Both at once?”
“Well, I know something,” I said, peeling the blanket off my legs and standing. “We are getting out of here.” Joe nodded once more, then he followed me from the drawing room toward our bedroom.
We packed our bags that night, taking less than an hour to do so, and we hurried by car to the coast. There, we met the Sea Cloud and boarded the next morning, as soon as the captain could be ready for us, ordering him to set our course for London.
It was there, surrounded by relieved Londoners and journals reporting on Chamberlain’s declaration that we would have “Peace for Our Time,” that Joe told me he would not be accompanying me back to America. Roosevelt had not recalled him, and there was still work to be done, now more than ever, but we both agreed that it was for the best that I return home to the girls.
* * *
—
The crossing could have been calm, what with the clear fall weather and the docile conditions of the sea, but the hours were a series of nightmares strung together. As the ship pulled farther from England’s green craggy coasts, I began to wonder whether we had made a mistake; I missed Joe terribly—should I have stayed with him? Should I have insisted that he sail with me? Was it absolute madness that he intended to return to his post in the center of Europe, where the Nazis were poised to goose-step right up to his doorstep?