The FitzOsbornes in Exile (33 page)

“It’s ‘Mont-ma-RAY’!” I wanted to shout. Couldn’t he at least have
checked
that beforehand?
That
hadn’t been a last-minute addition to the agenda!

Meanwhile, Veronica was scribbling away frantically in her notebook. The Council had finished being astonished at her unexpected appearance and were now regarding her with expressions that ranged from benign condescension to bristling outrage. Veronica had been right. These men did not believe that women—or was it just
young
women?—had any place at the front of this room. Below me, facing the Council, sat row upon row of men in dark suits. I counted three lady observers in sensible hats. There were two female secretaries sitting at the desks placed directly below the Council table. That was it. My hands tightened around the railing. Virginia Woolf had been right, too—women weren’t making the decisions about war, about peace, about
any
of the really important issues in the world. Even though we, just as much as men, suffered the consequences when the decisions our leaders made turned out to be the wrong ones. It made me want to hurl a copy of
Three Guineas
at the pair of elderly Council men currently muttering to each other and scowling at Veronica—except it was a rather thin book, and it wouldn’t have done nearly as much damage as they deserved.

I suddenly realized that the President had stopped speaking. Veronica was standing up, gazing around the room. Her eyes met mine for a second, and I leaned forward, hoping she’d see all my love, all my faith in her, in my look. She half smiled, then glanced down at her hastily assembled notes.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “And ladies.” She nodded at the two secretaries. “The Covenant of the League of Nations is one of the most inspiring documents of our time. Truly, there is no greater aim than ‘to achieve international peace,’ no better hope than for ‘open, just, and honorable relations between nations.’ ”

I was probably the only person in the room who noticed the slight waver in her voice, the uncharacteristic hesitancy before each sentence.

“But I need not quote further from the Covenant, not to those gathered
here
,” she went on, with growing confidence, “just as I really need not remind you of the many times when the League has averted war. To mention only three of them: in 1921, peace and independence were restored to Albania after Yugoslavian forces withdrew; in 1925, Bulgaria and Greece were able to resolve their conflict without further violence; in 1934, Peru and Colombia signed a peace treaty. All thanks to the mediation of the League. And yet—”

She turned to the men at the table.

“And yet, here we are, a mere twenty-one years after the end of the Great War, the ‘war to end all wars.’ And the world is, again, on the brink of war. Why? Because there are several powerful, belligerent nations that are determined to ignore the principles of civilized society, that have torn up peace treaties, invaded their neighbors, and trampled on the rights of their own citizens.”

She paused, leaned forward, placed one hand on the table—a technique I’d seen Simon use rather effectively in arguments with her.

“How can this
possibly
be happening while the League of Nations exists?” she said. “Well—perhaps it’s because the League, our international police force, has been too concerned with peace and not enough with justice.”

There was some angry muttering below me. Veronica straightened and raised her voice.

“For those who have not had the opportunity to peruse the documents my nation has provided to the League, allow me to summarize our situation. Montmaray, an island in the Bay of Biscay, has been an independent kingdom since 1542, and a member of the League of Nations since 1920. It has never experienced civil war, never invaded any other country. The only time in recent history it has participated in international conflict was in 1917, when Montmaray offered assistance to the Allied forces at the Western Front. My late father, King John of Montmaray, raised a battalion. Most of the young, able men of Montmaray sailed to France under his command. Nearly all of them were slaughtered in a single day in the trenches. The best of our young men—our hope, our future—were gone, forever. My father never recovered from it. Our kingdom was devastated, very nearly destroyed.”

She took a breath. The room was now silent.

“So—I understand about war. I know that the devastation goes on long after the treaties have been signed and the last soldiers shipped off home. I understand why anyone who’d lost a son, a brother, or a father in the last war would do almost anything to prevent another war. I understand the desire to appease these new dictators who make such noisy demands and stamp their feet so heavily. It doesn’t seem such a high price to pay, does it? Giving them a bit of land, letting them have a few more aeroplanes and tanks than they’re strictly supposed to own, turning a blind eye when they round up a few of their own Jews or Communists and throw them into concentration camps. After all, we
were
rather unfair to them after they lost the last war. And if they get what they want, they’ll stop asking, won’t they?

“But what does history tell us about such men? What does literature say? Let us turn to Shakespeare, who wrote: ‘Why should Caesar be a tyrant, then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, but that he sees the Romans are but sheep.’ ”

Veronica looked at the Council members.

“Gentlemen, two years ago, the Germans bombed the Kingdom of Montmaray. They knew that the only permanent residents on the island were women and children; that communication with the outside world was limited and difficult; that there’d be no rescue for the citizens of Montmaray. Yet a Nazi officer, SS-Obergruppenführer Wilhelm Gebhardt, sent seven bomber planes to destroy, firstly, the village and the village boat, and then the bridge that connected the sixteenth-century castle to the rest of the island, and then the castle itself. I was there that day. I survived, by a series of miracles, and so did my immediate family. We are the last remnants of Montmaray, living in exile. Our home is now a German military base. The Germans have built an airstrip, from which they launched attacks to aid Franco in the Spanish Civil War, in violation of international non-intervention agreements. They have warships anchored off our coast, perfectly positioned to attack France and Britain. And, although you may have difficulties believing this, the Nazi officer who invaded the island and ordered the bombing also tried to stop us from reaching Geneva to give our testimony today. Germany in 1939 is not a nation that respects the laws of civilized societies.”

She looked down at her hands, now clasped on the table. Anyone else might have thought she was offering up a quick, silent prayer, but I knew better.

“No doubt you feel there are more important issues facing the League of Nations than the fate of a tiny island none of you has ever visited,” she went on. “But consider this: whether it is Montmaray or Czechoslovakia or Poland that is under threat, the League of Nations was established to deal with
precisely
this issue. I quote Article Ten of the Covenant: ‘Members of the League undertake to respect and preserve against external aggression the territorial integrity and existing political independence of all Members of the League.’ Or, to put it more simply: Are you sheep, offering up your smallest lambs for slaughter, one by one, every time the wolf makes angry growling noises? Or are you a shepherd, prepared to do your duty and defend the flock?”

She turned back to the men of the Council.

“Gentlemen, each one of you represents a strong nation. Your heads of state command armies and navies. The League is not powerless; it is as strong as its members wish it to be. So—make a decision today that will go down in history as brave and just and right. Take a stand against greed and brutality. Honor your Covenant.”

She sat down. There was a ringing silence.

I sat there in the gallery, tears sliding down my face, wishing the place were less like a cathedral, more like the theater, so I could cry out “Bravo! Bravo!”

But then, to my amazement, the woman seated directly below me began to clap. And the applause spread, through the ranks of the newspapermen, the observers in the gallery, the diplomats sitting behind the Council, even one or two of the Council gentlemen themselves, although they stopped the instant the President frowned at them. Veronica glanced up from her notes, looking rather taken aback. Then something in the middle of the audience made her eyes widen, and she smiled and shook her head slightly.

I wiped my face and leaned over the railing, but all I could see was the back of a fair-haired man, who was standing up and applauding vigorously. I’d thought for a moment that Veronica might have seen Simon or Toby. My worries about them had somehow been pushed aside while Veronica was speaking, but now they came flooding back. Had Simon found Toby? Was Toby seriously injured? Had Simon managed to convince the police to let Toby go? Had Toby actually been charged, and with what crime?

Awash with anxiety, I barely registered that the President was speaking again. A gentleman stood up to respond (and how I wished they had little flags in front of them, to identify where they came from). It took a moment before I understood he was giving a speech
in support of Montmaray
! And then another stood, this one Belgian (I heard him introduced), and then another and another, each man censuring Germany in no uncertain terms! Even the
British
Council Member was sympathetic to our cause (if rather noncommittal). And then the President was proposing something—but I’d suddenly realized who Veronica’s fair-haired supporter was: I’d caught a glimpse of his face as he turned to his neighbor. It was Colonel Stanley-Ross! What was
he
doing here? Except now I’d missed whatever motion the President had proposed. And the Council was voting! The hands went up—six, seven, nine, no, more than that—it was unanimous.

“The Council of the League of Nations,” declared the President, “resolves to send a letter of protest to Germany, condemning Germany’s actions against Montmaray and offering to mediate this dispute between the two nations.”

We’d done it. We’d finally done it.

Veronica was beaming. I was half laughing, half crying. There was more applause, brief this time, then the President announced a short adjournment, and Veronica was ushered out the door. A dozen newspapermen charged after her, and I saw Colonel Stanley-Ross try to follow, his way blocked by all the others in the audience who were getting to their feet. By the time I’d made my way downstairs, Veronica was surrounded by a phalanx of reporters and photographers in the corridor. They were firing questions at her, and she was holding her ground and firing answers right back at them. I could see and hear her, but I couldn’t get anywhere near her.

“
Manchester Guardian
. Is it true that the King of Montmaray has offered his services to the Royal Air Force?”

“Your Highness,
New York Times
. Does Montmaray recognize Franco’s government?”

“Your Highness! Are you satisfied with the level of support Britain has given to your government in exile?”

“What do you think of Neville Chamberlain?”

“What’s your position on the situation in Danzig?”

“Are you engaged to be married?”

Veronica turned an icy look upon this last reporter, and he took a hasty step backwards. “Why do you want to know that?” she said. “Have you fallen hopelessly in love with me?”

There was much appreciative laughter and more flashing cameras.

Then a reporter said, “Your Highness, what was Montmaray hoping to achieve from addressing the Council today? Hitler has gone back on previous agreements, ignored previous letters of protest—so will today’s Council resolution make any difference? Will it
matter
?”

Veronica hesitated. The reporters leaned in, pencils poised over their notebooks. Then she lifted her chin.

“What we wanted,” she said, “was to be heard. For the world to understand what has happened to Montmaray. The truth, gentlemen,
always
matters.”

“Your Highness—”

“Thank you for your questions,” she said firmly, “and good day to you all.”

“Your Highness!
Your Highness
!” But the Colonel had finally arrived and was shoving his way through the newspapermen, scattering them like skittles. He bundled Veronica and me into a taxi and rushed us back to the hotel, where he’d taken a suite across the corridor from ours. There he made a flurry of telephone calls, and two hours later, Toby and Simon arrived—Toby looking rather bruised but otherwise unharmed.

“I’m
so
glad my nose isn’t broken, after all,” Toby said, collapsing onto the Colonel’s sofa. “It really is one of my best features.”

“If you care so much about your looks, why the hell did you get involved in a public brawl in the first place?” snapped Simon. But I knew, and Toby knew, that it was just Simon’s way of showing how relieved he was.

“As if
you’d
have stood by, watching those bullies attack that poor little man,” said Toby. “And they lured him in there in the first place, I saw it. Of course,
they
got off scot-free because one of them was the son of a very important councillor, while the poor little man got charged with public indecency.”

“Yes,” said Simon, “and
now
do you see what can happen to men who—”

“But never mind about all that,” Toby said quickly. “Go on about what the Council said, Veronica.”

“Well, then the Council voted,” said Veronica. “And I knew the decision had to be unanimous, and I was
sure
the French Council Member was going to vote against it, but somehow, the resolution got through.” She heaved a sigh. “And yet, that reporter was right. What
will
a letter from the League of Nations achieve? Germany withdrew from the League in 1933, and Hitler doesn’t seem to give a damn what the rest of the world thinks of him. And the Council refused to commit to any firm action if Germany didn’t comply—”