Paris, February 7^th, 1939

The phone wakes me up: it’s George, who calls me from Algiers. He keeps waiting for his plane to be repaired.

The thought that he left on “an old jade” – as he says – worries me. I remember my mother-in-law’s words and I agree with her: “I am fed to the teeth with it.”

I went to see The Hostage by Paul Claudel at the French Comedy with Ventura[i].

Paris, February 8^th, 1939

I have supper with [Georges] Huysman, General Director of Arts, at his place in the famous Gobelin manufacture, where he stays at the state’s expense. Other guests: [the playwright] Tristan Bernard, Anatole de Monzie [the Ministry of Communications], [the novelist] Roland Dorgelès.

          There is great enthusiasm here, a huge waste of spirit – one of the most subtle – , but everything spiced with vulgarity as a husk dish.

Paris, February 10^th, 1939

          Two telegrams from George: one from Colomb-Béchar, the other from Reggane. He has finally set off. He is at the heart of his dear Africa.

          The web of events starts unreeling: the Spanish nationalists [Franco’s troops] have conquered Minorca, the island where some fool from here claimed that the Englishmen had landed a long time ago. The Japanese conquered the island that reigns over Hanoi Harbor. The chess game has started. Take your seats for the quadrille.

          Tea at Mrs. Florica Bressy, Alice Cocea’s sister. I go there to run an errand to Thierry who is dying to find out if he is appointed ambassador. “The prestige of Romania’s King is at stake.” This is what I have to tell General Cocea’s daughter, who is an almighty figure at Quai d’Orsay.

          Thierry calls me. For the sixth time since yesterday. I remember Mrs. Tallien’s[ii] line: “Patience dear, you’ll get your breeches.”[iii]

Paris, February 11^th, 1939

The Hainan Island, in China’s Sea, was occupied by the Japanese. Hong Kong, Hanoi and Singapore are threatened (Japan worries me).

After Franco’s men had occupied Minorca, [the battleship] “Devonshire” came to save the Spanish republicans (that is, the “communists,” as the adversaries consider them). The British protect “the Reds” – here is another quite significant issue.

Paris, February 12^th, 1939

          In Berlin, a music-hall artist went to jail because of the sketch he was interpreting. He was asking the audience who was the brilliant German who, casually, undertook diplomacy and whose name started with G. The audience shouted: “Goering!” The comic actor answered: “Aber nein!” After a few piano chords the question was asked again; the audience shouted: “Goebbels!” the actor shouted in his turn: ”Nein!” When the audience gave up, the comic whispered: “Goethe!” The audience was elated.

Paris, February 14^th, 1939

          France buys from the United States 615 airplanes that cost two billion [francs] instead of building them itself. I think as George does, I know he would agree.

          When one wants to win a boxing match it’s better to train rather than to buy false muscles. When producing airplanes, one produces the corresponding men as well – good workers and good pilots.

Paris, February 16^th, 1939

          The French newspapers discuss Franco’s ingratitude endlessly. “A gratitude that actually he shouldn’t feel,” I remarked. They bank on his ingratitude towards Mussolini, who helped him defeat “the Reds.”

          In my opinion, one can count on his ingratitude if the Rome-Berlin Axis entered a bad political phase or suffered some other kind of failure.

Paris, February 22^nd, 1939

          This afternoon I went to princess Edmond de Polignac, on Cortembert Street, to listen to some music. There was a Romanian pianist, Dinu Lipatti, playing. A little man with the allure, smile and profile of Emanuel [Anton Bibescu’s younger brother]. He was enthralling.

Paris, February 23^rd, 1939

          No news from George, after his last telegram from Gao.

Paris, March 1^st, 1939

          Cardinal Pacelli’s is elected: pope Pius XII becomes the successor of pope Pius XI[iv].

Paris, March 4^th, 1939

          I received today the visit of José-Maria Sert[v], who – together with other people – dealt with rescuing the paintings from the Prado Museum. The operation cost much, very much, the expense being incurred by the Whites and the Reds in turn, while the Spanish people… Armored train, armored shelter, special guards, nothing was considered too expensive for the paintings of El Greco, Velasquez, Titian. While the Spanish people…

          Who would have spent the money used to secure the paintings of the Prado Museum for saving the children of Spain?

          Put El Greco, Titian or Velasquez in front of an ordinary woman, a worker, a shepherd, a janitress from Spain or from any other country and ask any of them if it is worth paying in order to see such a thing, to keep it, to save it from perishing. The answer is easy to guess. However, in Spain, to save some paintings that the average man doesn’t even care for, the state’s money was spent – be it red or white – , in other words money coming from people’s toil while the children were dying.

          We, the very happy and very few, have imposed to the people, to all peoples, our standards, our pre-established fiduciary rate, our values.

Paris, March 8^th, 1939

          Lunch at the British Embassy. The table neighbor on my right is Hervé Alphand[vi], who is leaving for Berlin for some kind of financial scheme destined to hide both to the Germans and to the French the “gravity of the circumstance,” as this slide is politely called.

          Alphand tells me that he will negotiate with “auntie Mutzi” – the nickname given by him to his German counterpart.

Paris, March 14^th, 1939

          Preparations for Lebrun’s[vii] official visit to London. Preparations for the presidential elections in Paris. The same old game. Long live Mr. Everyman! It’s safer like that.

Paris- London, March 15^th, 1939

          Hitler enters Prague today, seizes the citadel [the Hrad castle]. The Skoda plants, England’s money, the Creuzot plants money, all of these were the lard from the trap that caught the mouse. I can imagine the echo in London, where I arrive tonight.

          Tilea[viii] phoned me yesterday to hasten my arrival. I thought he merely wanted to deny the hostile rumors started by Anton [Bibescu], but he had more serious reasons as well.

          I took the night bird – the seven o’clock plane – on Le Bourget airport. Shortly after, I arrived in Croydon[ix].

Paris, March 16^th, 1939

          Shrove Tuesday – what a carnival in Europe! Bohemia and Moravia were declared German protectorate!

          Lunch at Léonie [Leslie], Winston Churchill’s aunt, who declares: “I am certain that Hitler did this to compromise Mr. Lebrun’s visit.” He did it with many other reasons and, perhaps, with no reason at all, out of an ardent drive.

          Tilea’s troubled voice on the phone: “Bad news! The Germans offer us a piece of [sub-Carpathian] Ruthenia. It’s a poisoned apple[x].”

London, March 17^th, 1939

          Tilea arrives at my place at half past nine. A long conversation. He is in an awful state of anxiety and seems very unhappy: “I have terrible news from Transylvania. The Germans are at our border. They claim: ‘Give up industry and remain an agrarian state. In this case we guarantee your frontiers.’ Gafencu[xi] went crazy… In Bucharest everybody went crazy. Our entire armament [controlled by the Skoda plants] fell into the Germans’ hands – it was still in Czechoslovakia. We are lost. Dead![xii]”

          I remember my father’s words: “The spirit of this people was shaped by the teachers from Transylvania… against the Hungarian earls.” In the fight against the counts.

          Poor Tilea was terrified at the thought that the earls, whom we had got rid of in 1919[xiii], would come back.

          In his opinion it is only a matter of hours. Transylvania is going to be snatched from Romania and placed under the leadership of a German general and some ordinary count. Tilea talks with an endless sorrow and his despair seems authentic.

          I promise him that I will do everything I can during my stay here. What exactly? We’ll see.

          They are waiting for the speech Chamberlain is going to make tonight at Birmingham when he turns seventy. One expects everything from this speech that is being held the day after Hitler entered Prague and after Bohemia and Moravia became a German protectorate.

          A speech that needs to be listened to. Poor Chamberlain! Poor Anne! What a birthday cake!

          Victor Cazalet, Member of Parliament in the House of Commons, comes to see me. I ring this alarm bell, which is very sonorous, to him. He promises to do something.

          In the evening, at a quarter past eight I go up to Mr. Duchenne’s flat, the general manager of Ritz Hotel, where I live: he invited me to his place to listen to Neville Chamberlain’s speech.

          The Birmingham city hall, great ovations.

          What we feel right now cannot be expressed, says the British Prime Minister. [There has been no Anglo-German consultation]. Consultation rhymes with indignation. Magic words: “Liberty… the British Empire and France… the rabbit popping out of the top hat…” I am all ears, weighing every word and thinking of what I found out from Tilea this morning.

          Chamberlain states that they are not indifferent to what is going on in South (-Eastern) Europe.

          “Something is happening,” I say to myself.

          Mr. and Mrs. Vansittart[xiv] promised to dine at my place in the small drawing room where they are going to meet Tilea. Vansittart wants us to be alone with the latter so as not to have any leaks. He asks our minister about Germany’s economic ultimatum, about the 22 divisions that threaten to invade the country, about the German oppression. The Prime Minister here, in England, will be replaced. He is too weak.

 Vansittart tells Tilea that the Romanians should resist.

          “We will,” the latter answers.

          “How is that possible?” I interfere. “By ourselves?”

          David is sent to fight while the others keep a respectable distance from Goliath.

          To my great surprise Vansittart tells Tilea that he will call Maiski[xv]. And so he does. From the quiet small drawing room in which we were sitting he calls Russia for help. And Maiski answers. The two arrange a meeting.

          Sarita [Vansittart], bending towards me, asks me if I see how it works.

          Truth is that, this afternoon, there was a cabinet meeting in Downing Street in which they decided how to help Romania. The news that Bucharest denies the ultimatum[xvi] annoys the Prime Minister. Although, an economic ultimatum is just as serious as a political one. Giving up the industry, as Tilea told me this morning, [there was nothing else left for Romania] but agriculture. The Georgics, the Bucolics, happiness and heaven!

          This tragic denial – they have lost their head, as Tilea says. “Nobody wrongs me! Don’t help!”

          There is another meeting of the British cabinet tomorrow. Tonight at Maiski. What will be the result of all these?

London, March 18^th, 1939

          The economic ultimatum, denied by Bucharest, troubles the House of Commons. Hitler destines us exclusively to agriculture. At London there is a huge tumult.

London, March 19^th, 1939

          The encounter with Tilea who suffers greatly.

          “Gafencu has gone crazy, he repeats to me. He negotiates with them. The fellows in Bucharest are angry with me. They ask me to deny the economic ultimatum. In fact, I told Lord Halifax[xvii] that I got the information from unofficial sources. But it’s not true! It was Armand Călinescu[xviii] and Grigore Gafencu who updated me.”

          He asks for the Denham phone number of Vansittart and I give it to him.

          “In Bucharest they don’t agree to the way I acted. They give me no instructions. At Downing Street they decided not to acknowledge Czechoslovakia’s disappearance [as an independent state].”

          “This has become a spasmodic tic with the western people,” I answer. “See Ethiopia’s emperor[xix].”

          Viorel Tilea states that Chamberlain is in danger, that his political demise is inevitable and that the Parliament wants Lord Halifax as head of the government. They are also requiring the introduction of obligatory military service [which didn’t exist in England before].

          And to reach these goals, the fellows here want to make use of Romania. Everything makes sense!

          Poor Tilea is overwhelmed with fear. I comfort him as much as I can. He is happy to find out that until tomorrow I am staying at Malcolm MacDonald[xx], who invited me at Hythe. Since the latter is a member of the government, Tilea hopes that I will be able to say something useful and to do a good job.

          I go to Hythe in Malcolm’s small car, driven by hardworking Mason, James Ramsay MacDonald’s former driver. On the way, he makes political confessions to me. To my great and amused surprise, he desperately wants Winston Churchill to enter the government. He tells me that the Germans are “hardheaded,” that Romania has to defend herself and that, when needed, England will help Romania, but in order for that to happen – and he repeats it several times – Churchill must enter the government. This trust in Winston that I found with the driver of the first Prime Minister from the Labour Party makes me smile.

          Churchill is one of the few political Englishmen who doesn’t like Malcolm, although the latter is very popular in the House of Commons even – or especially – among his adversaries. But Churchill, a passionate father, doesn’t forgive Malcolm for defeating his son Randolph in the elections.

          I arrive at Hythe at noon. Malcolm tells me that Carol has sent their king an SOS.

          So Tilea was right to make a fuss!

          “Tomorrow they are holding the cabinet meeting for Romania.”

          The situation is even more serious than I imagined. Ribbentrop [the Reich’s ambassador to London then] was summoned to Berlin, to present his report [actually to become minister of Foreign Affairs instead of Baron von Neurath].

London, March 20^th, 1939

          Long conversation with Malcolm. He tells me that, on his return from Munich [after the agreement between the four parties concerning Czechoslovakia was concluded], Neville [Chamberlain] made them choke with laughter by describing the scrubby footman who came to welcome him and who was no other than Hitler.

          After the awful indictment delivered by the dictator who had lost any trace of self-control, Chamberlain, while descending the stairs, glanced at him over his shoulder and thought he was the ugliest creep he had ever seen.

          Then, Malcolm tells me about the incident with the inkpot. He says that these fellows have no idea how to draw up the draft of a communiqué. They know nothing else but to give orders. So, at that moment, they made a lot of fuss before they sat down and began to write the lines they were supposed to sign. And when it came to signing they brought a huge German inkpot, but… nothing. The inkpot had no ink!

          How poorly the Germans become organized when it comes to signing a compromise! I enjoy immensely this sentence full of contempt: They know nothing else but to give orders. I invite Malcolm at dinner where I am also inviting Tilea, whom I would like him to meet. He accepts adding that he has to meet their allies’ delegate. Still, if it joins Great Britain, Romania has to face a problem: the more resolute Britain gets with Germany, the more Hitler’s need for our petrol grows. And in the Straits, one hasn’t seen any British man-of-war so far!

          Malcolm tells me that Van [Vansittart] thinks only at destroying the Italian fleet.

          That’s why there are no [British] men-of-war in the Straits. One cannot do everything at once. Matters must be straightened up, as Gambetta said, if I’m not mistaking.

          Lebrun arrives tomorrow with the first day of spring.

          Malcolm left me at the Ritz. Behind the steering wheel, Mason kept silent, although he was quite worried about Romania’s fate. He believes that after Prague, Romania will be just perfect for waking up the British.

          At a quarter to four, Charley Londonderry takes me to the House of Lords to listen to Halifax’s speech.

          Charley tells me that Hitler has gone crazy. He adds that they will have to beat the Germans again.

          Such words are extremely significant coming from him, for he had thought for a long time that his mission was to mediate between his London and Hitler’s and Goering’s Berlin. We are waiting outside while the lords are saying the prayer. Then, I sit comfortably in one of the fourteen armchairs of red Morocco leather brought by Charley. I look around, at the gentlemen assisting and at the thrones [meant for the royal pair] that are now covered. A handsome milord is scratching his back, right between his shoulders, with perfect offhandedness, like dogs: he is at home, in the family, isn’t he?

          The first who takes the floor is [the diplomat and English writer] lord Crewe, who says that the Prime Ministers would better stop wandering abroad and let the diplomats do their job. Then, Lord Halifax rises, as if made up of several pieces, like a carpenter’s meter. He is as thin as a greyhound. He defends Chamberlain. Ministerial solidarity.

          Violet Bonham-Carter[xxi] invented a nickname for Lord Halifax: Holyfox. For, although he looks like a saint, he is a shrewd saint, a Mr. Fox. Just as Saint Paul, in my opinion, the one with the epistle to the Corinthians.

          Talking about Neville Chamberlain’s reaction to the conquest of Czechoslovakia, Lord Halifax says that the former was shocked and that so was he.

          Since these gentlemen are shocked, it means that Hitler’s prestige is diminishing. It is true that [besides this] the British taxpayer loses the money he gave to Czechoslovakia, or, at least, to the earthly remains of the latter, after September 1938.

          The accounts are closed. Les bons comptes font les bons ennemis.[xxii] Lord Halifax states that everything must be taken into account again, stressing every word.

          The Romanian government denies the rumors about the economic ultimatum declared by Germany. Bucharest had to invalidate this and I think it regrets. The German newspapers accuse Tilea and Vansittart of having planned the lie with the economic ultimatum.

London, March 21^st, 1939

The first day of spring – the day when President Lebrun and his wife arrived in London. K. [Walter Eliot] takes me to the Ministry of Health in Whitehall to see Lebrun’s arrival, welcomed by the king and the queen. The convoy makes its appearance. The beautiful Welsh Guards. The king [George VI] and Lebrun on the purple pillows of the landau. In the carriage, on the right, Mrs. Lebrun, dressed in silver-gray, on the left – the queen in mauve and, in front of Mrs. Lebrun, the duchess of Kent. Of all three, the third is the only one with a queen’s appearance: she looks like a tigress carried beside a sheep and a cat in a cage.

Mrs. Lebrun is ridiculous: she sends kisses to the crowd. From both sides of the carriage the king is in, two horsemen are hopping at a trot, each of them with an axe in his hand. “For chopping Hitler’s head off,” I hear somebody behind me saying.

My host and my friend K. Walter Eliot, Minister of Health, tells me that the cabinet meeting is owed to me. [Robert] Bearnays [undersecretary of state in the Ministry of Health] remarks that thanks to me Lord Halifax learned about the news from the Ministry of Health before the Foreign Office transmitted it to him. After the convoy passes, I hear a kid from France who says: “I found a topic for the composition in French.” The boy’s father must be the Frenchman to whom K. explained while he was introducing us, that my name was not Elisabeth, but Martha Bibescu. “Are you the great writer?” he asked.

Dinner at Amery, whom Lord Thomson[xxiii] brought to Mogoşoaia once, and who became since then First Lord of the Admiralty and secretary of state for India. He asks me all sorts of questions about what is happening in Romania.

London, March 22^nd, 1939

          Lunch at Philip Sassoon for those who accompany Lebrun. They are serving it in the golden dishes belonging to Charles II [Stuart] and in rosy porcelain plates. I am sitting next to the duke of Devonshire and Sir Robert Vansittart. Today, Romania has signed the economic agreement with Germany. Tilea was called to Bucharest to “present his report.” His precipitated departure made a very bad impression in London.

          As soon as lunch is served Vansittart advises me to write home so that Tilea should be sent back to London immediately. He made a name for himself here and his going back to Romania would be fatal.

          At night, a festive show at Covent Garden. The car of the Royal Air Force drops me and I go inside through the entrance reserved for the king. [Lady] Léonie Leslie accompanies me.

          The audience gives me the strange impression of a dead world. Despite the wonderful flowers – huge bunches of lilies on the stage, on the right and on the left side of the curtain. They are making jokes on Mrs. Lebrun’s breasts: a bra that doesn’t sustain anything. Lady Leslie asks me in a tone of mild irony if I have seen them. “I have!” I quote to her Sully’s aphorism: plowing and shepherding are the two mammae of France. Lady Leslie repeats this to her nephew, Winston [Churchill], who comes to have a word with us during the break. His presence elevates the show and makes up for all the embarrassment. Extremely pale, his thick bulldog neck tied in the collar of his Trinity Corporation uniform, Winston tarries with us for a long time. We are all aware (although nobody talks about it), that the solemnities here take place after the occupation of Prague, after the annexation of Memel, after the economic enslavement and on the eve of Madrid’s fall. Turning suddenly towards me, Winston Churchill says on a scanning tone that we will have war. He adds that there will be nothing left of the British Empire but ashes and that, in spite of this, he feels twenty years younger. A thrill goes through his body when he utters these words: in his delight he resembles a plump tomcat caressed by an invisible hand. I sense how electrified he is.

          When he leaves I have the feeling that the room falls again into general apathy. There is absolutely nothing that can break through the heavy atmosphere: neither the brilliance of diamonds, nor the naked women’s shoulders or the beautiful flowers, not even the white satin box where the duchess of Kent is radiating.

          The short conversation I had between the acts with Winston Churchill, his few words, are for me the only joyful moment of tonight.

London, March 25^th, 1939

          Canada didn’t agree to England’s buying wheat from Romania as lord Lloyd would have liked. This was exactly what Fabricius[xxiv] had banked on, and he was right.

          At five o’clock a visit of Regis de Oliveira, Brazil’s ambassador. As all diplomats, he considers the war inevitable. Like the doctors, who believe that their patients are meant to be ill and that ill people are meant to die because, out of stinginess, they resort to treatment late, much too late. If they die, so much the worse for the patients; if there is war, so much the worse for the peoples! Arriving after Oliveira, Rob Bearnays says that Britain will provide guarantees for Poland. He must be well informed, for he is a member of the government – a second-rate member, but quite active. Poland has a treaty with France, as he says. If Poland feels threatened, France must help and they [the British] must help France. But now, the French say they won’t interfere. Consequently, they are left with the obligation of defending Poland.

 Please, you first! Everybody says: “Dear English gentlemen, you shoot first![xxv]”

London, March 26^th, 1939

          Lunch at the Ritz with Rob Bearnays. Oliver Stanley, minister in the War Office, comes to our table to talk. His wife Maureen arrives today in Bucharest where she is holding a conference under the British Council aegis. Lord Lloyd is a little afraid of this trip to Romania made by the beloved Maureen, lord Charley Londonderry’s eldest daughter: she is a beautiful eloquent woman, however she is quite fond of parties and drinks recklessly. That’s O.K. She will find somebody to chat with in Bucharest, at the Athénée-Palace bar.

          I tell Bearnays my little story with Saint George and the dragon. England is Saint George and Hitler – the dragon. Saints ignore dragons because dragons don’t mingle with saints. But there appears a poor princess who has been thrown to the dragon that will devour her, by her awful parents. Hence, Saint George goes into action and, in order to deliver the princess from the dragon’s claws, he sets off to kill the dragon.

          All depends on the existence of a princess. Last time [in 1914] her name was Belgium. But now, Belgium declares: “No, thanks!” The Czechoslovakian princess was swallowed by the dragon before Saint George had the chance of interfering. They are looking for another princess to save. I think this time her name is Poland.

          At six o’clock in the afternoon Léonie Leslie comes to my place. I tell her what Malcolm’s driver said about her nephew, Winston Churchill. She answers sadly that he won’t enter the government unless there occurs a disaster.

London, March 27^th, 1939

          Italy claims Corsica back. Strange conversations reach me. Last Thursday at Lady Colefax’s, Lady Caroline Paget told me that they would become a new Venice. Meaning that in the coming war, Britain will lose supremacy over the seas. I told her: “The climate here doesn’t agree with paratroopers.”

 I am sure that, if things turn out bad at the beginning, if the British isles become impossible to inhabit because of the air raids or of the mustard gas, the British will not surrender to the Nazis; they would rather move to Canada one day, together with their military fleet, their royal family, the Bank of England and the other banks, with all the children and the thoroughbred horses. To Quebec!

          Everybody here says that “this time we’ll get down to work!” When? It is quite known: in September. How? This is another story. Poland or Romania? What difference does it make? “In six months the war breaks out…”

          To my great surprise I read in “Paris-Soir” something that seems to have been written on the eve of the Stresa conference: “The four peace pillars – Britain, France, Germany and Italy.” Still, the French press and the London newspapers, faithful to Churchill, request the introduction of obligatory military service in Britain.

London, March 28^th, 1939

          In the speech he delivered yesterday in the House of Commons, Neville Chamberlain said what he should have said: Romania didn’t give up its independence.

London, March 30^th, 1939

          Cabinet meeting in 10 Downing Street. This time for Poland.

          Last night in London the Irish blew up a bridge. Vansittart tells me that things have developed in a really sinister way. Neville has turned all green.

[…]

Bucharest, August 30^th, 1939

          Lunch in three at the Gafencu’s. Nouchette [Mrs. Gafencu] tells me she had a few words with Mrs. von Coler[xxvi], Hitler’s friend, sent with Germany’s Legation in Bucharest to seduce the Romanians as if charm had anything to do with politics. “You are like somebody who won an elephant at the lottery and doesn’t know what to do with it,” Nouchette told Mrs. von Coler.

          The elephant is Russia. However, Nouchette forgets that the elephant is not so dispensable, since the others have striven so hard to win it. Nothing is surer than war. On returning, for teasing Prescilla and offering her some food for thought, I tell her in the car about the factory of prostheses for hands and legs that I visited in one of London’s suburbs. I describe it to her in all details. “The owners of this factory must be so content!” I say. “I can see them rubbing their hands and listening to London Radio.”

Posada, September 1^st, 1939

          A morning with plenty of dew which forecasts a lovely day. Above the flowers, the sun casts a bluish light. London Radio broadcasts the 16 items proposed to Poland by the Nazis. The English declare that the matter concerns the Polish, without making any further comments, so as not to inconvenience Warsaw, so as not to hinder it from forming an opinion. How delicate!…

           The war is not inevitable, the British newsreader states, but London was evacuated and so were the fleet, the army and the air force. Isn’t it war? Maybe not. Not yet. This bright morning I have been listening to the news in English, at the German radio station. Forster declared to Hitler that the free city of Danzig took the liberty of becoming German again. The German troops surround [the Polish harbor] Gdynia and enter Danzig. Adolf Hitler thanks the city, the city thanks Adolf Hitler.

          The dice is cast and rolling. All the “desired storms” are in the sky of this marvelously beautiful day. How sad and wise J. R. M. [James Ramsay MacDonald] was when he said that there is no hope of peace anymore because they didn’t care for bettering the treaties before the new generation of Germans, who haven’t experienced war, reached the age when it can. J. R. M. also said that the hope for peace was lost since 1933 [the year of Hitler’s coming to power].

          George meets war in a simple and very direct way, with a flood of curses for Hitler. These insults and this simplicity are rewarding. They are hurrying to help Poland. They didn’t know where and how to pick on themselves in order to start the fight. Now they know.

Posada, September 2^nd, 1939

          Such a beautiful clear day! The park is all enamel, crystal and diamonds. Each flower, each leaf has been cut precisely, with the welding lamp, and the color was kept prisoner in a metal frame.

          The moon shines through the big willow tree. The hills, of a liquid blue, are like the waves of a prehistoric sea, tamed at the edge of horizon by the great flux from beginning of the world. The hills of Breaza. The ambassadors [of France and Britain] haven’t left Berlin yet. Chamberlain declares in the House of Commons that the Germans are withdrawing their troops [from Poland] and are willing to negotiate. Never before has there been a war that began in a less war-like manner. Daladier and Chamberlain are tuning glory hymns, on two voices, dedicated to Mussolini. Those who offer flowers to a dictator are punched by the others.

Posada, September 2^nd, 1939

          This morning, at half past eleven, England declared war on Germany. Several countries feel bound to proclaim their neutrality. Hungary doesn’t declare itself neutral, because in its opinion there is no war.

Posada, September 4^th, 1939

          The echoes of what is happening in Downing Street. Precipitated return from Chequers, as on that Saturday when Germany announced its re-arming. I was among those who came back in a great hurry. I can imagine now very clearly how the return took place. I hear the familiar voices again. J. R. M. in his office in Downing Street told me sadly, a few years before events precipitated, that we were floating ahead. I remember Walter Elliot’s voice saying that to put France in its place, they had to thrash it twice. We’ll have to fight the Germans and win twice, too, he adds.

Posada, September 5^th, 1939

          We have already entered the age of lies. Everybody believes only what they want to believe, everybody maintains that nothing is happening except for what they want to be happening, so that the discussions have become some kind of rituals: they utter magic words, meant, with a little luck, to turn into deeds.

          Similar to what George tells us about the Polish cavalry, which would disarm the German tanks, rendering them useless. He looks extremely confident when he says this.

          The war of illusions is more powerful than that of realities.

          The first British ship sunk during the war was Athens, which was sunk by a torpedo in the Hebrides.

Posada-Bucharest-Mogoşoaia, September 7^th, 1939

          In the afternoon I have tea at England’s Legation, at lady Hoare’s [born Joan Cavendish-Bentink] invitation. She maintains that Roosevelt should organize a conference with the neutral states immediately. It’s the only sound intervention. She says all this in Rex Hoare’s presence, who smiles impassively. She is a fierce enemy of the war and she has the courage of not hiding it.

Mogoşoaia, September 8^th, 1939

          The news of the day: Warsaw’s occupation [by the Nazis] is imminent.

Posada, September 16^th, 1939

          I have secretly decided, with George’s full approval, to leave Athens with Ioan Nicolae [the author’s nephew, the elder son of Martha Bibescu’s daughter, Valentina Bibescu]. A British hydroplane is coming to take the son of Prince Andrew of Greece, another four “pupils” and our “pupil,” in order to transport them to their college [in England], for it is the end of holiday.

          George lends me his plane, a Potez, to go to Belgrade, where we are taking the Athens express.

Posada-Mogoşoaia-Belgrade, September 18^th, 1939

          We are leaving Posada in a few cars. A stop at Ploieşti. Newspapers announce that the defeat of the Polish gains incredible proportions.

          At three o’clock, we are on the Băneasa runway where George is waiting for us. On arriving there, Ghiţă Rîşnoveanu, the driver, shows me a huge number of planes, lined up on the field. George enlightens me: it’s the 350 Polish planes that were saved by being directed to Romania.

          George’s plane has lieutenant Culuri as pilot and Enescu as radio operator. George and Valentina say goodbye to Ioan Nicolae on the run.

          We land in Belgrade. The president of the Yugoslavian Flying Club, Sondermayer, with his wife, Burileanu, from the Romanian Legation, and some other people, are waiting for us at the airport.

          In the evening, dinner party offered by the Flying Club from Belgrade to “Mrs. President of the International Aeronautic Federation.”

          Last time I was here was in 1925 on the way to Egypt. Three murdered sovereigns are bleeding in the dusk, on the clouds over there. Milos Obrenovici, murdered in the park where he was strolling with aunt Simka Lahovary’s mother, father’s sister-in-law. Alexandru Obrenovici, hacked with sword blows in the wardrobe and then thrown out of the window, together with Draga (his wife). Alexandru I Karagheorghevici, the blood drained out of his veins, fallen in the automobile that marched past Cannebiere[xxvii] boulevard [in Marseille].

          The dinner party is presided by old Antici, former minister in Bucharest, currently marshal of the Royal Court. Sondermayer bends over to my ear: “I would have liked to give you a letter for prince Bibescu. But I don’t have the time to write it, since you are leaving tomorrow morning.” “You can give it to Culuri…The plane leaves a few hours later then I do.” “No!” he answers, looking straight into my eyes… “It’s only you I trust… Tell the president on my behalf that Romania must do everything in its power to keep its neutrality. And tell him that we here, will do everything we can to remain neutral…”

          Could this be the result of the secret visit that Weygand made here?

Athens, September 20^th, 1939

          I find myself [in the Athens express], with great joy, in a small railway station, full of rosy laurels that grow in the soil, in real soil, among flowers, not in flower pots or in boxes: the laurels are at home.

          I am the guest of the British Legation. The news is war news, accepted with a courage that gives off the feeling of calmness. The great aircraft carrier Courageous has been sunk. George and I had lunch aboard the Courageous together with J. R. M. and Philip [Sassoon].

          A big ship that has sunk always saddens you. Like somebody’s death. When it’s a ship that you know, it’s even more saddening: it was alive, you crossed the gangway to its board, you walked on its decks, it carried you on its back.

          In Athens, the news is more up-to-date than mine. The president of the Polish Republic, Mościcki, is in Bicaz, with his wife. I remember them, the tea they offered to us at the Royal Palace of Warsaw. How long has it been since then? Three years? How fast everything happens! The Reuter agency broadcasts Mościcki’s proclamation. What can one tell his people on such a disaster? The president addresses the Polish people, probably referring to himself: “We had to secure the symbols…”

Athens, September 21^st, 1939

Learning of my arrival, colonel Florin Rădulescu, Romania’s military attaché to Athens, asks me to receive him. He is one of the four fugitives from my hospital[xxviii].

He tells me that the Greeks will undoubtedly form an alliance with the English. We should do the same, but the Greeks have the chance of being supplied via the sea, whereas we don’t.

Athens, September 21^st, 1939

          Michael [Palairet, Great Britain’s minister to Greece] comes to my room to inform me that Călinescu, the Romanian Prime Minister, was murdered in the middle of the street. The legionaries killed him… It’s an extremely critical moment. According to all appearances, the situation remained under government control. He has talked to [Radu] Djuvara [Romania’s ambassador to Athens] on the phone, and Rădulescu has just left.

          With a note of sadness in his voice, Michael adds that the German radio stations claim that the assassination was planed by the English. “Finally some good news, I answered, after the very bad news you have given me.” He asked me in surprise what I meant. “It’s self-evident: if the Germans state that the English are somehow involved in the murder, it means that Călinescu’s assassination is disowned by the Romanian people.”

          After a few minutes Djuvara phones me. He is coming to my place tomorrow morning. He has flattering news from Bucharest: a military government led by general Argeşanu[xxix] was set up. Michael considers that [the Iron Guard] will now try to assassinate Carol II. I believe so, too. The second act of the drama has been played, the second toll of a bell that only I can hear.

          First act: I. Gh. Duca’s assassination in the Sinaia railway station. Assassinations at Belgrade, assassinations at Sophia, the assassination has become a common event.

          My father would say: “The Romanian people is not familiar with the political crime. None of our rulers died assassinated…”

          Everything has changed now. For instance, during Carol’s II reign two presidents of the Council of Ministers were assassinated. I think that there is a very serious threat on the king.

          I am getting sick of talking to Gane. He has an unshakeable belief in Germany’s victory. In his opinion there must be an overthrow of alliances. Romania should adhere to the politics of Germany and enter the war on its side immediately. Gane considers that any obstacle to this procedure must be done away with by any means, even by one or several political assassinations. As it was proved today.

          What horrifying news!

Athens, September 22^nd, 1939

          News from Romania: the government is in control. Deeply touched by Călinescu’s death, Carol II is determined to resist. General Argeşanu organizes the repression. His cabinet stands for a transition government. Afterwards? They are talking about an Argetoianu government.

[…]

Paris, February 21^st, 1940

          Dinner at the La Granges. Among the guests there is Finland’s minister to Paris, Holma, and his wife. Also here, is the ambassador of U.S. to Warsaw, Biddle, who is presently staying at Angers [the headquarters of the Polish government in exile]: he is the most elegant man from America. He obviously orders his clothes in London.

          La Grange discretely recalls the secret Senate meeting, where he harshly criticized the Daladier government, that is Guy La Chambre [Marshal of the Air Force]. The aviation faces a predicament. The orders to America were not sent in due time.

London, February 26^th, 1940

          I arrive at Le Bourget airport. I travel from Paris to London by plane. In a few minutes Corbin, France’s ambassador to London appears in the waiting room. He always seems worried. I feel that today he is even sadder than usual. Only God knows what he might have heard about the technical difficulties of the Franco-British military collaboration.

          I can tell that the English stir in Corbin a feeling of admiration mixed with an imperceptible note of contempt that an Athenian must have had for the Romans after the conquest of Greece.

          How odd that we can travel by plane between France and England in times of war, when theoretically, German fighter squadrons should be swarming, ready to intercept us on the way. Not a scrap of such thing!

London, February 26^th, 1940

          In the British government’s opinion, Reynaud must be supported, but they should try as much as possible not to take Daladier down. As few ministerial crises as possible. The English are worried about the silence that reigns across the entire Maginot line. A silence that seems to come out of a pledge!

          Lady Reading drives me to the Ritz, where I live. She tells me about Weygand, about the British army in the Orient, made up of Australian troops that can be found in Egypt. Anthony Eden went there to inspect them. The Australians are above 1.98 m. tall. An army of gods that stopped in Egypt, as they should have.

London, February 27^th, 1940

           Lunch at the duke of Alba, Spain’s ambassador to London. Lady Chamberlain, Austin’s widow [1863-1937], stepmother of Neville, shows her pro-Franco and pro-Mussolini position. She wants to leave for Rome, she still hopes that Italy will remain neutral until the end.

          The duke of Alba praises marshal Pétain [France’s ambassador to Madrid then]. What are these praises based on? When they meet, at Franco, Pétain shakes hands with the German ambassador. At Antonio Primo de Riveira’s [former dictator of Spain] funerals, which took place at the Escorial, he saluted the swastika flag and the latter saluted the French marshal back.

          When they showed surprise at this, he said blandly: “In my life I have saluted so many flags, that it’s now their turn to salute me.”

          The duke of Alba states that Pétain is worshiped in Spain. He threatened to resign if the French government holds back the cereal wagons destined to Spain.

London, February 27^th, 1940

          At the hotel, I receive Vansittart and his wife’s visit. Van tells me that the world will never be as it was once. He believes that life as we once knew it has gone forever.

          He is set against the rich. He accuses them of wanting to conclude the peace even at this very moment, only to secure their fortunes. But it’s too late, peace is not coming back.

          I have dinner at Dorchester [Hotel] face to face with Charley Londonderry. In the dining room, many elegant people. A table of higher officers appointed by Charley’s son-in-law, Oliver Stanley, Hore Belisha’s substitute at the War Office.

          Londonderry explains to me again the drama he experienced as [former] marshal of the Royal Air Force. He warned his colleagues that England must either be on good terms with Germany or double, triple, quadruple the airplane production. [Stanley] Baldwin [Prime Minister between 1935-1937] wouldn’t do either.

          On coming out, he tells me that this camouflage drives him crazy. He considers that it’s not possible for the Germans to bomb London – they have absolutely no reason!

          From the height of his stiff collar and his triple-knotted tie, he goes on saying that if we don’t pay heed very carefully, we might lose the war… He shows surprise at their stupidity and confesses that he has never seen such stupid people running a government: Chamberlain is soft, Halifax is cautious, too cautious, and Winston is mad, staring mad!

 London, February 28^th, 1940

          Dinner at Sybil Colefax. The other guests are deputies from the parliament, especially young deputies. “First we have to win the war.” This is the leitmotif.

          My table neighbor spins charming little yarns about the duke of Bedford [the great landowner and tycoon]. His son writes leaflets, as his “instinct” tells him that Hitler should be trusted.

          Another slogan is: “We don’t want an untimely peace. Together with the French, facing hardships, we will go all the way!”

          But England has one million unemployed and only 50,000 fighters. Thank God for the gods who came from Australia. All of them are taller than 1.98. Do they deserve to die for Europe’s sake?

          Of course they do, no doubt about that! To save Europe, let’s kill the Australians!

London, March 2^nd, 1940

          Dinner at George Lloyd and [his wife] Blanche. With no reticence, he tells me about his latest visit to C[arol] II. He informs me that the king is perfectly lucid, very intelligent. He wants to keep his army intact, for the end of the hostilities. Lloyd says that he would do the same if he were him.

          Then he refers to Weygand, with whom he has recently discussed [Romania’s] problem. The latter sustains that next year the English will have a huge army in the Orient. In George Lloyd’s opinion the war will end there, it is there that the final act will take place – by a naval battle on the Black Sea. The oil from Batumi and Baku, the oil from Romania…

          Then we resume the talk about George’s visit to Romania. Lunch at Carol II. Tensed relationships between the king and Rex [Reginald] Hoare. I have a confession: when the king got out of the room for a moment, M[ihai] came to Lord Lloyd and asked him: “Could you give me a hand? Life is a torture for me here. I want to leave: father doesn’t understand me.”

          That was too much!

London, March 8^th, 1940

          I recall Winston. I met him at the supper offered by the marquis of Breteuil in May 1914. In his blue jacket, he looked like a plump clown. Clemmy, his wife, was very young and very beautiful then, but quite boring.

          Among the guests – [Aristide] Briand in a cutaway and Jules Roche. I wondered why I had been invited. I still wonder.

[…]

Paris, May 4^th, 1940

The entire Paris is humming with the rumor of Paul Reynaud’s imminent fall. So quickly? Eight days ago, when I had lunch with him, we talked about the one single vote majority, which made of him the disputed ruler of France. “Everything depends on the Norwegian expedition,” he told me.

Should everything depend on this… No British minister would have answered this way. In a war like this one a minister’s fate cannot depend on a single episode of the general conflict, be it happy or unhappy. How weak!

Paris, May 6^th, 1940

          Dinner at “La Crémaillère” restaurant where I was invited by the Abramis and Amiot, the plane builder. Abrami tells me that Paul Reynaud will get rid of Gamelin and Daladier on the same day. General Georges will be appointed for Gamelin’s position and Paul Reynaud will take over the War Office. “Amiot needed three hundred workers for his plants,” Abraham informs me. He got them after having tea with Marie-Louise de Crussol, Daladier’s mistress.

          Marie-Louise without Napoleon! Cosi va il mondo! [This is how things work!]

Paris, May 7^th, 1940

          Violent attacks [in The House of Commons] against Chamberlain. The offensive is led by the liberal Archibald Sinclair.

          The Royal Air Force bombs Danish and Norwegian towns, which proves they were occupied by the Germans.

Paris, May 8^th, 1940

          The [allied] expedition in Norway has failed. I remember the spring morning (it was like yesterday), when the newspapers proclaimed the victory of the Anglo-French fleet, which succeeded in cutting “the iron way,” mining the entire surface of the Norwegian coasts, without knowing that the Germans had already landed.

Paris, May 10^th, 1940

          Yesterday, May 9^th, Malcolm MacDonald called on me to have a talk about Chamberlain’s likely fall from power. He told me that, practically, Reynaud had already fallen. The Norwegian expedition killed two birds with one stone: Chamberlain, to whom they reproach that he doesn’t fight the war vigorously enough, and Reynaud, who came to the top government position in order to make a display of energy.

          The battle is fought between Daladier and Reynaud, as well as between their two generals – Gamelin, Daladier’s man, and Georges, Reynaud’s man. The fight has reached the climax. This is true war!

          From the conversation with Malcolm MacDonald: He quotes Mandel who says that if after each defeat the government changes, by the end of the war there won’t be enough deputies to become ministers.

Paris, May 10^th, 1940

(Notes during the air raid)

Half past four in the morning. The madness has started. Alarm sirens. Rather some roars in the prehistoric forest, before sunset. On the horizon, the cannons are coughing and spitting. One can hear machine-guns, probably on the roofs. The elevator of the hotel is going up and down steadily.

And then, nothing. Up in the sky there is the noise of engines. Hermann Goering’s planes. They are flying past, they have passed! Inside the hotel, deep silence. An empty shell. The animal has deserted it.

          The planes are flying quite low, in successive waves, at fixed lapses, like in a game, as if they were trying to show what they could do – a proof of their abilities. One would say that, up in the sky, there is an automobile or a motorcycle race whose competitors are passing by, endlessly passing by.

          The planes don’t launch anything, at least for the moment. It is crystal-clear that they might drop bombs. But they obviously want to prove that nothing stands in their way, that nothing can stop them, since here they are, in broad daylight.

          The plane waves fly past at six minute lapses, in regular dispositions, with a bird’s indifference. It seems nobody fires at them anymore. I count twelve squadrons. There must have been around thirty before I started counting.

          The sirens announce that it’s over. The alarm lasted about three-quarters of an hour.

          Winston Churchill has become Prime Minister. In case of a catastrophe, they will turn to Winston.

          How happy he must be. His triumphant day has come. How fascinating must be for a man of his temperament to come to power on the high tide, with the most powerful of all storms. The American blood of his mother, Lady Randolph, had surely its say in this. For, this time, America is at stake! And indeed it is!

 1914 was England’s war, under any of its masks. 1939 will be the United States’ war. How anxious Walter Lippman was! Now, they got what they wanted.

Paris, May 13^th, 1940

          Too beautiful a spring. Everywhere they are talking about nothing but paratroopers: the dew that will fall from this clear sky. In their fall, each of them is carrying a doll as big as a man’s stature, which they throw downwards, in order to simulate that the respective paratrooper was killed. “Nuremberg toys,” says my friend, [the writer] Paul Claudel.

Paris, May 15^th, 1940

          A battle on Maas river. The supreme commander of the Dutch troops orders a cease-fire. Hitler recovered Wilhelm II. This morning, I was, in my thoughts, at Dorn.

          Holland’s resistance lasted for five days. Not more than the life of a tulip in blossom. Not less either. It’s through with the buffer states. Finis tamponis!

          George Lloyd told me in the white drawing room on the Bourbon quay, more than one year ago that they would invade Holland and try to take Amsterdam. The initiated always know everything, they alone. And they cannot do anything.

Paris, May 16^th, 1940

          Madam Franasovici calls me up: “It’s as bad as can get. I’m leaving!”

          This night lorries were leaving Paris in a hurry. Similar to the nights in Bucharest at the end of November 1916.

          Today, Thursday, it’s stamp collectors’ day; they gather at the corner of Marigny and Gabriel boulevards, under the green transept. They have no idea! The stamp vendors and the stamp collectors have no idea! They do not know that it’s over, that all this beauty of Paris will perish.

          “They are coming at 60 kilometers per hour.”

          “They are at Laon [130 kilometers off Paris].”

          “They have passed Soissons.”

          At the end of Gabriel Boulevard, the United States Embassy is guarded by sentinels. We know that they are evacuating.

          Mêrope Franasovici, nicknamed Mary, is ready to leave, too. Our embassy is moving to Tours, where the Ministry of Foreign Affairs is also going. She intimates that the situation is as serious as possible and that discouragement has become a general state of mind. Disgust comes through her twisted sentences.

          A little later, I meet Choute, who has even more explicit news: “Riot!” Entire regiments seem to have surrendered, refusing to fight. Could this be true? This is what they say on every defeat: the people declare that one or another general sold out to the enemy and betrayed, and “the elite” claims that the soldiers refuse to fight.

          Choute informs me, with angry sparkling eyes: “The Germans are advancing very fast, at an incredible speed. Our people are gathering their belongings, packing and evacuating.”

          Choute doesn’t let me sleep alone tonight, claiming that there might be an air raid.

Paris, May 17^th, 1940

          In Paris, euphemisms abound: “pouch” instead of a breech in the front lines or invasion. “The pouch” of Sedan – fatal name![xxx] The pouch must be liquidated. And the weather that is so fine! The wonderful Parisian spring – it is almost too beautiful, actually it is indeed much too beautiful. The Park Hotel chambermaids are crying. Franasovici tells me: “If I were you I would go straight home.” But George left word for me to stop in Italy and I will.

          At noon, I hear shelling in the distance. The cannons are making a muffled but ceaseless roar.

Then, a maddening afternoon begins. Madam Franasovici, with round terrified eyes. Paul-Boncour: everything would have developed splendidly if they followed his advice. He talks about Peyrouton, who is to replace Thierry in Bucharest. So as not to upset him, I refrain from saying that this is of no relevance right now.

          In my rummaged drawing room, Paul-Boncour lets me know: “The first confrontation between us and the Germans ended with their victory.”

          The newspapers are of a saddening imbecility. Before leaving, I read the following: “Paris is part of the front now. The capital is proud of the circumstances that allow it to get closer (sic!) to our admirable soldiers.”

          Unbelievable! Can the journalist who wrote such a thing imagine that “our admirable soldiers” are reading his article while they are taking to their heels, merry and happy that Paris is now in the front zone, thanks to some circumstances that are owed precisely to them? This is a colossal stupidity! Who would write such things? For whom? Who reads them?

          “The Germans are at Laon,” Choute informs me. “They will arrive here the moment they want it.”

          The sun sets, I have to go. Franasovici sends the embassy car for me and his rosette-wearing men. He is afraid that big bustles might occur at Lyon railway station. The rosette-men have the duty of making way for me with the fists, through the crowd that rushes to the trains.

          But how much different reality is from this imaginary picture of a battlefield. The platforms are deserted, even the porters have disappeared. Lined up to a wall, a group of children from Belgium are staying in a rope enclosure, like some flowers at the Flower Market, neat and quiet, guarded by nurses from the French Red Cross.

          The train is empty. Behind the curtains of a compartment, prince [regent] Paul of Yugoslavia’s wife and her lady-in-waiting: they are coming from London and going to Belgrade.

          I leave Paris. The route I will cover: Paris-Rome.

Venice, May 18^th, 1940

          Will Wilhelm II return to his great properties [in Germany], to live the days he has left with his family? The troops of his own army have taken him prisoner in Holland, an unprecedented act. A speck of novelty in history does no harm.

          Prince Paul of Yugoslavia’s wife that I saw yesterday, on the train, paid a visit to the queen of England. In London, where the queen of Holland was also. The princess left her three children, even her four year-old girl, in England.

          Lord Halifax told her that the Germans would try to bomb England and to invade it with endless numbers of paratroopers. But the princess left her little daughter there. The shower of fire is easier to bear on the British islands than at Divulje [Yugoslavia] or Split. She is right. The war of the poor: I have been familiar with it since 1916-1917. It is horrible!

Rome, May 19^th, 1940

          A lovely day, like those before the war. But what war is this? The war that is never ending, and that, just as last time, hasn’t yet touched the Grand Hotel in Rome, where I stay.

          I have tea with the [ex-] king of Spain [Alfonso XIII, deposed in 1931], in his apartment, whose windows give on to the Thermae Museum. Talking about Spain, he tells me that he likes Franco, he approves of him: “I signed his promotions with my own hand, all the ranks, up to general… But it isn’t over yet in Spain, too many people are killed – around fifty a day.” He makes a grimace, then he shows to me the map [of France]. “If the French General Staff succeeds in strangling the pouch, the Germans will suffer the greatest defeat ever experienced by an army.”

          How French this authentic descendant of the Bourbon Constable remains! Only he can imagine, at this time and in this place, a victory of France.

          After the visit to the king of Spain, I went with Marilù [countess Pavoncelli] to Frascati, where Prince Clemente Aldobrandini had invited us. I’m growing extremely fond of his villa, a real wonder.

          One of duchess Grazzioli’s daughters is engaged and will leave for Berlin, where her future husband is an embassy attaché. They are making jokes: it seems that the Fuehrer will attend the wedding.

          And I come from Paris, where Reynaud has just declared that the fight is tooth and nail! Another world. I am in another world where they are discussing about inviting Hitler to a wedding.

          The entire conversation of duchess Grazzioli and her cousin evolve around the villas in Rome requisitioned by the army. Everything was ready for her daughter’s wedding and here comes Mussolini dashing into war. “Per che?” Against whom?

          “Since he sets up his General Staff at Tivoli,” Clemente wonders, “whom does he want to wage war against? The Pope?”

Rome, May 20^th, 1940

          I have lunch with the king of Spain. I hardly enter the room when he announces me that Weygand took Gamelin’s place, and Charles Roux took [Alexïs] Léger’s [as secretary general of Foreign Affairs].

Rome, May 21^st, 1940

          The war threatens Italy, it will begin in a few days… The Germans have occupied Arras, Abbeville, Amiens… General Giraud has fallen prisoner, together with the 9^th Army that he was commanding.

          In Rome, one can breathe strange air, sad air, forecasting storm.

Rome, May 22^nd, 1940

          From the hotel where she lives, Paola calls me up this morning, overexcited, to give me false news: “I told you! They are 80 kilometers away from London.” “Eighty kilometers of what?” I reply (of lawn, of asphalt, of trodden land, of sand?).

          To get there, the Germans have to swim across the Channel.

          Lunch at Colonna Palace, the residence of Max Antonio Colonna and Princess Isabella, his wife. The other guests: Martin Franklin with his wife, Cyprienne del Drago (Charles Roux’s daughter) with her husband, Marilù and Colonna’s son.

          The event of the day: [Clement] Attlee [the labourites’ leader] has announced, in the House of Commons, that the Magna Carta has been abolished. With it, individual liberties and habeas corpus have also been abolished. When at war with the mud, it is the snow that gets melted. Inevitably.

          Pétain and Weygand have been appointed in their positions to save France. Reynaud is the author of these appointments. Pétain is 84 and Weygand 75.

          Cyprienne del Drago, who is incredibly beautiful, is pregnant. They say the father of the child might be Ciano, “the groomissimo.” Del Drago works at the Foreign Affairs Ministry.

Rome, May 23^rd, 1940

          Lunch at the [Petrescu-] Comnens’ [ambassador to the Vatican]. They tell me that, all over Rome, the answer circulates given by queen Elena [wife of Victor Emmanuel II] to her daughter-in-law, the heir princess Marie-Josée de Piemont, sister of Leopold III, the king of Belgium [and heir prince Umberto’s wife]: “Have the Germans taken your country? Mine [Montenegro] has been taken by the allies. Each in its turn.”

Rome, May 26^th, 1940

          On my awakening, the news that Boulogne has been occupied by the Germans. At Grand Hotel, everybody believes that England is surrounded.

          The elegant, the spiritual, the intellectual people of “the elite” in Rome or Florence, deplore Great Britain’s fate, a fate which they believe to be sealed today, the 26^th of May 1940, by the fall of Boulogne harbor.

Rome, May 26^th, 1940

          Franco Lequio [Italian diplomat] calls on me before dinner, at Grand Hotel. I tell him that I will dine at Farnese Palace [the premises of the French Embassy in Rome], where [André] François-Poncet [France’s ambassador] invited me. The Farnese Palace is guarded, for fear of hostile demonstrations. I do not want Lequio to accompany me, since he is an office holder in the building across the street, where Ciano reigns. They know everything in Rome. Lequio’s superiors would also find out, and they wouldn’t forgive him.

          We are a family at the embassy – only the staff and I. François-Poncet says: “We have awful news. Our front was penetrated everywhere. The king of Belgium asked for peace. The English embark for returning home.”

          Right now, politeness urges you to tell the French: “You have to believe in miracles!” I come from the miracle plant: This morning I was at San Pietro cathedral, where I ran into Mrs. Parisot and her husband, the French military attaché. She related to me her discussion with an Italian woman. “After the fall of Paris,” the Italian woman said, “peace will be concluded and it will be fine for everyone.” “Madam, Paris is just a city, like any other,” the French woman said.

          I had tears in my eyes: here is the heroism of France’s daughters! It’s as if you told somebody who threatened to pull your heart out from the chest: “The heart is just an organ, like any other.” Such women never surrender.

          I leave the embassy quite early. François-Poncet walks beside me, on the endless red carpet. Finally, he gives utterance to his mouth! “I sent them tons of reports![xxxi] People in Paris didn’t even want to read them. I told them, just as I told your husband, what the German air force means. [Air force] general [Erhard] Milch [from Goering’s general staff] went to Paris to tell them the same thing. They didn’t want to believe anything, they didn’t want to hear anything. And general Vuillemin!” [chief of the French air force].

          François-Poncet was speaking in a tone of irritation, of angry despair: “All the estimates of our general staff were false. The French cannot understand how cautious the Germans are! Vainly did I tell them that, when estimating the resistance of a bridge, the French add a security coefficient of 20, whereas the Germans add 60. The French avarice doesn’t conceive of such a thing.”

          I returned in a very sad mood to Grand Hotel, where I could hardly come round, so I kept quiet for a long time.

[…]

Posada, October 15^th, 1940

          Yesterday, the little Polish woman [a refugee, housed by the author] came to take her children. She saw on the road, near Ploieşti, the German anti-aircraft cannons arranged in batteries and the armored cars painted in matted gray so as not to reflect the moon or the sun rays.

Posada, October 16^th, 1940

          London is intensely bombed. Winston declares on short waves that they will rebuild the City of London and make it more beautiful and better to live in.

          Yesterday at dinner, colonel Rattay, Royal Air Force attaché to the United States Legation, told me that Hitler would remain the only voice in Europe. America would enter the war too late… He added that the only important thing then was the offensive against England. Here I think he is a little bit wrong: he knows very well that the German assault has failed. In the United States there are eight million unemployed. This war is a true blessing: the Americans will finally be able to earn their living with the sweat of their soldiers.

Posada, October 20^th, 1940

          [Italian] offensive in Egypt? The British resistance is weakening.

          It seems that the Romanian government asks Spain to extradite “Mr. Ernest Urdăreanu and Mrs. Elena Lupescu.” I doubt it will succeed.

          Pétain and Weygand knock together a well-paid army. They are coming back to the mercenary system.

Posada, October 22^nd, 1940

          This morning there was a small earthquake. It was as if I was riding a wild beast that suddenly shook itself.

          The German airplanes bombed Holland House, the lovely house where Lady Islington, Charley Londonderry’s sister lives. Holland House that Chateaubriand admired!

          The British airplanes flew over Switzerland, on the way to Verona, which they bombed – Juliet’s balcony. Oh, Shakespeare!

          Italian airplanes bombed an oil-refining center with huge depots on an island in the Persian Gulf.

          In the evening, Churchill’s speech, addressed to the French. His voice that chews the words before spitting them, his voice, which was familiar to me… Recognizing it on the radio as well, after it crosses the air, I have the possibility of an imaginary reconstruction: his plump clown face, shimmering with intelligence.

          Churchill talks about the governments of the Axis: all of them want to snatch something from France. Germany snatches Alsace and Lorraine; Italy – Corsica, Nice, Savoy, Tunisia and maybe Morocco; Japan wants Indochina. Churchill ends in a great tone, by saying that England doesn’t want to take anything from other countries. England only asks them to respect her.

          Radio Berlin announces a meeting, between Hitler and Laval, somewhere in France, where they discussed about the final peace and the prospect of a Franco-German alliance.

Posada, October 23^rd, 1940

          A bomb fell on St. Paul’s Cathedral [in London], the last home of the great men worshiped by all England.

          Somebody retells to me how Carol II’s departure took place. Convoking the royal military house, he asked which one of the gentlemen officers wants to accompany him abroad. Deep silence. Then, one invoked his daughter’s illness, another pretended that his wife was about to give birth and another one that he had a bad health. Finally, Colonel Claus, Swiss by origin, was the only one who requested the honor of accompanying him.

          On the way, General David Popescu, son of the priest from Comarnic, former minister of Internal Affairs, came to the king and said: “We have been informed that the Iron Guard will attack the train. If Mrs. L. [Lupescu] gets off, the train will not be attacked.”

          On a very severe tone, Carol II refused to let Mrs. Lupescu get off the train. Later on, at Timişoara, General David Popescu came to the king again: “I have a car here. Allow Mrs. Lupescu to get off the train. I will cross her on the other side of the frontier to Yugoslavia. I am responsible for it with my own life.” “What shall I do with your life?” Carol II replied.

          The person who updates me sustains that the ex-king has fallen into a serious depression since the train attack. He has no more money. The train is sealed – so as not to pay custom duty in Spain. But now, there is nothing left for him to pay the hotel bill with.

Posada-Mogoşoaia, October 24^th, 1940

          On the way to Bucharest George asks me: “Have you listened to Churchill’s speech?” “Yes, I have.” “Did you like it?” “Very much!” Exactly what he wanted to hear…

Mogoşoaia, October 25^th, 1940

          From a letter of Şerban Sidery I learn that Ioan Olănescu, the only son of my sister Ioana, has died fighting for France, in June this year. He was an infantry lieutenant in the French army.

          All I can think of right now is this child, Ioana’s son, my father’s nephew, who died I don’t know where and in what circumstances – but he died on French soil, defending France.

          Ionuţ, the son of my father’s elder daughter: France’s land sipped his blood. Requiescat in pace! Dead for France…

 Mogoşoaia, October 29^th, 1940

          The news of yesterday saddens me today as well.

          Italy invades Greece. Count Campello relates to me that [prince] Alessandro Torlonia, Alfonso III’s [the ex-king of Spain] son-in-law, infanta Beatrice’s husband, was arrested and shipped [by the fascist police] with handcuffs, from Bologna to Rome in a third class wagon. His fault: he cursed everything and everybody – the war, the empire [King Victor Emmanuel III was also Ethiopia’s emperor], Italy and the duke [Mussolini].

Mogoşoaia, October 30^th, 1940

          Excommunication and all the curses shall befall the “greens” [fascists] that rule the country. This is how it will be, there is no doubt.

Mogoşoaia, November 1^st, 1940

          I go to Şerban Vodă cemetery where I search and find the tomb of my friend, [Vasile] Pârvan. I want to lay down a flower picked from Mogoşoaia.

          I have dinner at the Leons’, where Neubacher comes – Vienna’s mayor, the one who offered Austria’s capital to Hitler, by handing him the keys of the city, on the occasion of the Anschluss.

          Neubacher informs me coldly that a bomb that fell in London destroyed Londonderry House. I remember that Robin (Lord Castlereagh) would warn his mother that if she and his father went on being friends with Hitler and Goering, the crowd would break the windows at Londonderry House.

          Now, all the windows are flying in flinders.

Mogoşoaia, November 2^nd, 1940

          The Italians are rushing towards Salonika. Corinth has been bombed. My dear Corinth, where I passed on my way to Epidaurus.

Mogoşoaia, November 6^th, 1940

          George has fallen ill. What kind of illness can it be? Where from?

          Roosevelt was elected president with a great majority of votes.

I have a guest at dinner: [Constantin] Gane, who leaves for Athens. When he was imprisoned I pulled him through with Argetoianu’s help. This is how Gane describes Codreanu: “It was rumored that he had sold out to the Germans. It isn’t true! He wired to Hitler, who didn’t even answer. He didn’t know who Codreanu was, the name didn’t ring any bell to him. (sic!)”

However, later on in the evening, he contradicts himself: “During the meeting with Carol II, Hitler told the king: ‘Don’t touch Codreanu!’” Hence, Hitler knew who Codreanu was!

Greece is fighting bravely. Crete will not let itself be conquered. The battle of Salamis is resumed.

Mogoşoaia, November 8^th, 1940

           Wonderful weather, but awful day. I attend the religious service officiated on the day of the archangels Michael and Gabriel, in the church of Mogoşoaia. Outside, lots of legionaries are enjoying the sun.

          At lunch, George Plagino tells me: “There have been riots in Rome. Italy is worn out.”

Mogoşoaia, November 9^th, 1940

          George came at lunch to meet professor Leon (now minister of Industry), who luncheons here with his entire family. George looks like a ghost. I am terrified!

          Oh, poor him, in vain does he try to show the minister how ill-treated the industry is [by the legionaries]: Leon has just resigned.

          They make to each other sinister predictions, foreseeing that the riot will soon burst out.

Mogoşoaia, the night of 9^th to 10^th November, 1940

          Big earthquake. I felt, I heard how the palace is torn apart like a ripe fruit, how it swings like a huge creature. Terrifying cracks, dust, the taste of debris in my mouth.

          For a moment I thought I would die under the huge walls. The walls that surrounded my youth, incarcerated it, like the walls that incarcerated master Manole’s wife.

          How terrifying an earthquake can be! You experience something that goes beyond control completely. I jumped from bed in night-gown, barefooted on the ice-cold marble and I stooped on the threshold, panting, horror-stricken.

 Mogoşoaia-Posada, November 10^th, 1940

          Neville Chamberlain has died. I am thinking of poor Anne, the wild rose. Molotov is in Berlin.

Mogoşoaia, November 11^th, 1940

          Bucharest is amusing itself on Ghigi’s quip at a German general. The former asks him: “Why don’t you land in Malta?” “I have heard that Malta is an island, too!”

          [Mircea] Cancicov becomes minister. Hardly two months have lapsed since Carol’s departure, and here I see one of his advisors entering the government.

Mogoşoaia, November 13^th, 1940

          I have written to Ghigi, who is leaving for Rome: “Be careful not to come back with another of our provinces missing. Eventually, it will be all too striking.”

          George’s illness worries me seriously.

Mogoşoaia, November 15^th, 1940

          At noon, Romulus Dianu [editor at Curentul newspaper]. He describes to me how a putsch [organized by an Iron Guard faction] was nipped in the bud. 110 “greens” have been arrested, among whom Codreanu’s family.

Mogoşoaia, November 17^th, 1940

          I walk through the forest with Sir Reginald Hoare, his sister, Miss Constance and his son Joseph. Coventry suffered a terrible air raid. We hardly mention this subject. The telegrams also announce the destruction of Paddington railway station [in London].

          Sir Reginald Hoare tells me he asked Antonescu[xxxii] if he knew that the Romanian army was not exactly enthusiastic about his “guests” [the German troops]. The latter asked him in his turn where he had heard this, suggesting that is was probably in Bucharest’s drawing rooms.

          I feel a little dizzy when I think of the fact that I know Winston Churchill, Franklin Roosevelt, Mussolini, Ribbentrop and Goering – to mention only a few – , that I talked to them, I listened to them, I shook hands with them, we ate together, we replied to each other, we even exchanged memories and ideas. When I think that the right hand of each of them had, since then, the power of signing the decisions that they are signing now, I have the feeling that I descended in the Inferno, where I saw some demons planning all evils.

          Britain didn’t succeed in getting rid of its one million two hundred unemployed. It will not stop until it kills one million two hundred British people. Only twenty-four thousand have been killed so far. It’s a long way to fulfilling the established number!

          The United States have nine million unemployed. This promises a great deal of heroes.

Mogoşoaia, November 19^th, 1940

          At lunch, Sir Reginald Hoare retells me his discussion with Lucă Sturdza, minister of Foreign Affairs. The British minister said that if they set up an office where Romanians could enlist to fight in Greece against the Italians, they would have thousands of volunteers.

Mogoşoaia, November 21^st, 1940

          General Tătăranu, one of the four officers whose escape I facilitated [from a hospital] during the First World War, comes to have tea, here at Mogoşoaia. The conversation is enthralling. “The Germans are courting us,” Tătăranu tells me. “They need us against the Russians.”

          In my opinion, he is right.

          George lies in bed in great pains. I am deeply saddened by his condition.

Mogoşoaia, November 23^rd, 1940

          In the morning, Bucur [one of the butlers] comes in the Chinese room with a long face and a circumstantial tone, both hypocritical and sad: “I feel sorry [that I have] to tell you, Your Highness: there is an Iron Guard search in the house.”

          The job lasted from nine in the morning until six in the evening. All this time I held under my arm the little notebook I am writing in right now. The others were in my bag with needlework that was hanging negligently from my arm. It was disgusting – a prolonged ordeal, some sinister fellows (fortunately accompanied by a member of the old police, people that had been into my house before, on the occasion of some philanthropic festivities, of the Conference of the Aviation Ministers and of the ball held in honor of the Londonderry couple).

          Alexandru Ghica, the chief of the legionary police comes around eleven, to take charge of the search, as a mannered gentleman that he considers himself to be. He notices how ironically I ask him: “Tell me please, what exactly are you looking for?” During this time, his mates pierce the walls, to find out, by sounding, if there aren’t any secret hidings. It has been the fate of this house to face Brancovan treasure hunters. These ones don’t touch the silverware, or the jewelry, not even the weapons. All they are interested in is the papers. Anything in handwriting.

          They steal all my dear papers. All the manuscripts that make up my Opus Magnum – The Nymph Europe, The Phoenix Destined for Fire, the letters, the innumerable letters that are here at Mogoşoaia: those of my mother-in-law to my father-in-law, ruler Bibescu’s correspondence, that of ruler Constantin Brâncoveanu with the Imperial Chancery in Viena, with Charles VI, father of Maria Theresa, with the emperor Leopold II. In short, all that can bear even the trace of a hand-written word. Even the poems that were a gift from Claudel, even the photocopies of Anatole France’s manuscript, even the autographed letters of Bismarck to my mother-in-law, even Alfonso XII’s [of Spain] letters to me, even the green album. Nothing escapes confiscation.

          “We’ll return all the papers,” declares Alexandru Ghica. But we are taking them with us, otherwise we won’t finish, not even in three days’ time.” “What exactly are you looking for?” I repeat.

          They don’t bother telling me. They interrogate the personnel, they search through their rooms. Enraged, with tears on her face, Blanche [Caniot, the author’s chambermaid] does not allow a fellow to touch my clothes that she gathered from the bathroom and that she is now bringing in her arms. She declares to him that she is a French citizen and will not obey his orders. Two legionaries dash upon them, trying to pull them out of her hands. They start an squabble. “She is all wound up,” one legionary explains to the other. “She is French.”

          Valentina and Martha Dumbrăveanu are confined each in a separate room, where the legionary police “worm out” their secrets.

They came with a truck to load everything. To take what? My work, the Opus Magnum, the profound reason of my existence! I experience a feeling of nausea, an immense disgust, disguised under a sort of liveliness, as if I were on the deck of a ship, trying to prevent the seasickness.

Angry and sad, Ion [George Bibescu’s butler] comes from Bucharest and tells me they searched through the house on Robert de Flers street [George Bibescu’s residence in Bucharest]. And George, who is ill!

At six in the evening, the legionaries leave with the truck they came on. They robbed the spirit of this house with no use for anyone! With a sort of inner joy, I feel I have nothing in common with these people…

At the fall of dark, I leave for Bucharest with Valentina, to be near George. The shameless search hurts the feelings of love he has always had for this country.

Coming out from him, Valentina and I cross roads with the bandits who operated at Mogoşoaia. They came back to search the house again, because the previous search had no results. They are looking now for a woman.

I go straight to the chief of the gang and tell him: “Aren’t you ashamed! My husband is seriously ill. You break into his home for the second time in a single day! Please get out of here!” The fellow beckons to the others, picks up the receiver and asks for General Security. Valentina and I listen to him in amazement while he declares literally: “There aren’t any women here!” Aren’t we women? I wonder. What woman was he talking about?

The endless day is over. We start for Mogoşoaia. After we make sure that the gang named “legionary police” left the house where George is suffering.

Seeing again how Mogoşoaia’s trees parade in the night, illuminated by the car lights that pierce through the fog, I feel deeply sad.

The green brutes ravished the impregnable fortress, where my soul takes shelter, on the day of November the 23^rd 1940.

This is the end!…

I think Ghigi makes great efforts to prevent the “greens” from hurting us – either George or myself, or both. “The most upset is your cousin, Zoe,” [(Zozo) Sturdza, wife of Mihail Sturdza, the minister of foreign affairs], Ghigi tells me. I can’t understand why.

Mogoşoaia-Bucharest, November 24^th, 1940

          An awful day. George’s illness has lasted in fact for four months. The hypotheses taken into account: lung cancer? Or tuberculosis?

Mogoşoaia, November 25^th, 1940

          George is very discouraged. The atrocious mystery of his illness!

          I pay a visit to aunt Maria [Lahovary] where I find Zozo [Zoe Sturdza] – the Terror of Bucharest who tramples on bodies. She has white hair and is dressed in black.

          She tells me how much they had to suffer [as legionaries, under the reign of Carol II], she and her only son Ilie-Vlad, a beanpole with unkempt hair who wears green shirts and ankle boots. Zozo knows that I have come because of the papers that I want back and because of George, who is in danger, in spite of the disease that keeps him in bed.

          Her story is meant to dishearten me. She talks in a spiteful voice, full of hatred, ardently displaying the injustice she had to suffer for “the cause,” for “her cause.” What does it matter, compared to the things “endured” by her, the loss of my few papers? Trifles! Nonsense! The sole reality for Zozo is Zozo – how much she suffered, how much her folks suffered, and how she will take revenge on us, on everybody. She holds her revenge in the palm of her hand and shows it to everybody.

          Zozo is the one that leads the macabre dance. She doesn’t take pains to hide from me that it was only yesterday, in this very drawing room, that the wives of the current members of the [legionary] government had a discussion with Mrs. Antonescu, “to give a more vigorous impulse to the measures already taken.”

          What could this mean? An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, no doubt. But I didn’t kill anyone and I didn’t wish anybody dead!… Looking at Zozo, I notice that she takes delight in the thought of the future assassinations that she organized yesterday over a cup of tea.

          On leaving, she kisses me with a sort of rage, a cold rage. “I’ll put in a good word for your papers to Alexandru Ghica,” she says. “Ghica had lunch here today, but I didn’t have the time to discuss with him about ‘that’.”

          I say goodbye to a dangerous and evil woman. A degenerated being, with a sick soul, a monster.

Mogoşoaia, November 27^th, 1940

          The legionaries did “justice”: they assassinated Iorga!

          We decided to hospitalize George at Elias. Doctor Iliescu said a devastating thing: “He is doomed!”

          I draw the line. In several months we faced the invasion of Paris, the destruction of London, the monstrous earthquake; George is threatened [by the legionaries] with prison, death, maybe with something even more terrible (see the visit to Zozo!); I was robbed of my entire personal archive, I ceased to work, and George’s disease received its hideous name: lung cancer!

          I cannot believe it…

Mogoşoaia, December 2^nd, 1940

          Not a snow flake. The storm ended unexpectedly. Not a blow, a noise… Actually, there is something: the rattle of the German planes, our guardians that fly over Mogoşoaia.

          The [military] communiqués heard on the radio have the same value as the speeches held not a long time ago [under Carol II] at the joint meetings of the Chamber and the Senate. After the defeat at Trafalgar, says the duchess of Abrantès, Napoleon was not furious, but deeply unhappy. Well, speaking in front of the legislative body, on March the 1^st 1806, Napoleon said the following about Trafalgar: “Because of the storm we lost a few ships, after a battle in which we imprudently engaged…” This, and nothing else.

          If another Trafalgar occurs nowadays, this is how the radio station of the defeated state will break the news, at least in the beginning.

Mogoşoaia, December 2^nd, 1940

          [The former prefect of the Paris police] Chiappe and [the pilot] Guillaumet, Saint-Exupéry’s friend, perished in a plane crash. Chiappe was on his way to take over the position of High Commissioner [of the government of Vichy] in Syria. The press say that the British took down the French plane knowing that Chiappe will initiate in Syria a policy of military alliance with Germany.

          Marina Ştirbei and I wire to our dear Saint-Exupéry, to whom Guillaumet’s death must appear as a real misfortune.

          During the bombings that destroyed Coventry, the total number of victims is five per cent of the population. Oh, these statistics!

Mogoşoaia, December 4^th, 1940

          A visit to Mrs. Fabricius, for George’s sake: we must fetch PhD professor Auler from Berlin.

          Mrs. Fabricius comes back from the parade [of the German troops in Bucharest]. She receives me in the drawing room and praises Antonescu. She tells me that he wants to establish order and that Sima[xxxiii] gets along with him perfectly: they think alike (Mrs. Fabricius considers her wishes have become reality).

          In her opinion, the nineteen year old [prince Mihai] is amorphous. She watched his reactions during the parade: nothing! When the tanks that had broken the Maginot Line passed, he was totally listless.

Mogoşoaia, December 6^th, 1940

          I go again to see Mrs. Fabricius, who is expecting me in order to phone to Berlin. No results: professor Auler in not in the capital. I must send him a wire, which is a difficult thing as well: let’s not forget that George and I are suspects and that the “revolution” broke out in Bucharest.

          Baron von Mirbach from the German Legation gives me a precious piece of information: professor Auler is expected in Bucharest where he will hold a conference on the new treatments for cancer.

Mogoşoaia, December 6^th, 1940

          In the afternoon, Ghigi comes to Mogoşoaia. He wants to assure me that he pulled some strings in George’s favor. “He is the only one they are interested in from the two of you,” he declares. “But we all stand together,” I answer. “Nobody will touch a hair of you!” “Nice promise!”

          Then, Ghigi tells me that the legionaries won’t even talk to those that intercede in Argetoianu’s favor, or Tătărăscu’s, or in favor of any other person imprisoned by the new regime.

          “We are making a revolution!” the legionaries say.

          The Greeks are victorious [against fascist Italy].

Mogoşoaia, December 11^th, 1940

          Victory at Thermopylae. Two Italian divisions were captured by the Greeks. [Air and] sea battle at Taranto.

          The danger of an invasion of England is announced by Churchill himself. What ability! Each week, each month, each year of delaying the [German] landing represents a victory over the enemy.

          George! Everybody says he has lung cancer!

Mogoşoaia, December 12^th, 1940

          The Italians are defeated by the Greeks. If the Germans have come to use the enemy to defeat their own ally so that they should defeat the enemy themselves afterwards, this means they will become the rulers of the world.

          From Washington they announce the sudden death of Lord Lothiam (Sir Philip Kerr), Great Britain’s ambassador to the United States. I had tea with him in the House of Commons. It is said that his appointment to Washington was arranged by the Astor family, at Cliveden [a castle where the promoters of the conciliation policy with Hitler would meet].

          In 1934-1936, Lord Lothiam was the Englishman the most convinced of the necessity of a British-German rapprochement. And everything comes upside down! “Gods plan only unpredictable events” (just like humans, in fact). The Romanian saying is rougher, but completely justified: “Many go out for wool and come home shorn.”

Princess Martha BIBESCU (1890-1973), a descendant of illustrious personages of Romanian history such as Lahovary and Mavrocordat, was the remarkable author of 31 books besides a few others signed with a pseudonym, received an award from the French Academy for The Eight Heavens, became a member of the Belgian Royal Academy of Language and Literature, and was often in the front line of crucial historical and political events, as an insightful observer and participant. The original language of the diary is French.