Evening star., 1935-04-28

BY c. PATRICK THOMPSON.
Err ERREICHSFUEHRER'S S pouch
ed eyes cleaned in his vision
ary's face. He half-raised
~ his swastika'd arm in the
familiar Hitlerian gesture,
and the mass of black hair fell loose.
Our mission is to stem the tide of
bolSheviSm." (He was riding his IA
vorite hobby) The western powers
must unite for. protection. The
Red army menaces Aryan Germany.
Hence Germany'S need Of a powerful
army A pact of mutual assistance
with the Soviet? Imposiblel"
The Enslis audience of two, Sedate
in black coats and striped trousers,
listened quietly and with proper defer
ence: a tall, lean, elderly. man with
a lawyers sharp face, intent, dark
eyes under raZor-like, black broWS, a
bald dome trimmed with white hair;
a tall, lean, elegant and handsome
young man with GuardeeS mus
tache, thatch of black hair, an aris-
tocrat's easy air Forty-eight
hours later they shook hands at the
railroad station. Good luck. Anthony"
Moscow. The young Englishman
puts his long firm hand into the
pudgy one OF Litvinoff. Germany
mas aggressive designs. II We get in
volved in war with Japan. she will
attack our exposed western flank
She wants the Ukraine for food
reservoir. Then she will be ready for
anything-a seige, or thrust south,
southwest, or west. The Poles will
be with them. PilsudsN wants to
get rid of that bomb, the Corridor
through East Prussia to the sea.
Hitler suggests the obvious alterna-
tive of a new corridor to the sea
a corridor carved through Soviet terri
tory. Then Pole and PruSsian can
shake hands-and the Poles will
save their bacon"
Then to Stain.
The Englishman knows It all by
heart. Has he not talked often with
the plump commissar in the hotels
and lobbies of the Geneva palace?
Presently he and Litvinoff are going
down the long guarded corridors Of
the Kremlin. In big bare room a
thick-set man in a plain uniform
coat and trousers thrust into long
boots gets up and extends a large,
hard hand. His face breaks into a
smile which fails to disrupt its under
lying grimness.
The master Of Red Russia has
talked with H G. Wells. but with the
private contempt of man of action
for a man of words, dictator for
writer who means nothing in terms
of power. This young fellow, whose
hirsute growth above eye and lip are
as thick as his own, is the real thing
imperial Britain. Stain would like
to hear what imperial Britain thinks
about Hitler, and Russia; what she
thinks, and what she means to do, if
anything. The young Englishman at
the same time is interested to meet
face to face the man who can make
or break the f1eshy manager of Rus
sia's foreign affairs-and a dozen like
him.
Warsaw. The old ma1shall-dictator
pulls on his mustache and growls.
"Ah. Capt Eden eh? How old are
you? Thirty-eight. eh? Umph! Very
busy suppose. This Eastern Locarno
is all eye-wash. I was fighting the
Reds in the Ukraine when you were
getting your rehabilitation papers.
I was rept ling Budennys cavalry
Weygand and I, anyway-from the
gates of Warsaw when you were study
ing for your degree at college. What's
Laval, that provencal curb-dealer
got to say? What's Stain up to?
What do you think of Hitler?"
The EngliShman smiles deferen-
TALLY, shoots glance from under an
astutely cooked eyebrow, makes a
mental note that the old boy is get
ting shaky about the joints, and he
had better find out: After him-who?
Clutter Up Geneva.
The train speeds south, Prague;
familiar faces and phrases. These
Little Entente fellows clutter up the
corridors and anterooms at Geneva,
where, for the last year, he has talked
most Of the time for Britain. Little
Benes, eager, talkative as ever shakes
his hand. But the Czechoslovakian
foreign minister does not cut the fig
ure he used to. The Rumanian Tite-
lescu is the man now, the Balkan
Talleyrand, talking for the Little En-
tente bloc, always on the telephone
rom or to Paris-supple, adroit. tire
less and with some 1893 brandy in his
cellar. Well, what Goes Stain say?
How is the old marshal? What will
Britain do if-and when? Where,
all go from here?
Luncheon. and a big plane is off,
heading west. The sun is setting as
1t crosses the sea moat between
Europe and the British island. 1t
descends at Croydon Airport, on the
southern rim of the sprawling capital
the imperial city Of eight millions,
once protected by the moat, now
(thanks to the airplane invention
which Stanley Baldwin lately de-
plored, but hoped statesman would
manage to Christianize) the empires
Achilles heel.
The elderly gentleman with the
legal visage welcomes his young COL
league. They get into the, car and
drive through IL miles Of traffic
crowded streets to the government
buildings and premier's dwelling
They have much to talk about, for
Old EggHead, as ribald Geneva nick
names Sir John Simon. is due on the
shores Of Lake Maggiore in a few
days for q showdown with Laval and
MusSolini.
Back from his second grand tour,