September 19, 1919

The day after our return to Paris from London and the Conference on mandates, Jean, the bright-eyed veteran who ran one of the elevators in the Crillon, famous for his nimble wooden leg and his breast covered with the decorations he had won in the gallant defense of Verdun, told me that several Slovaks had arrived in Paris and were anxious to see the Colonel. I advised him of the coming of this belated delegation, but House decided that at this late day he should not intervene in the matter.

“I will, however, ask Frank Polk, who now presides over the delegation, to see them. As you know, I have many misgivings as to the justice of the settlement that has been reached in this thorny Czechoslovak problem. However, there is comfort in the thought that at least we have, under the provisions of the Covenant, called into being international machinery which in the end should effect a just settlement. You can tell them if you see the Slovaks that this is my hope.” On the evening following their first call, Jean appeared at my room, acting in an unusually secretive manner.

“The Slovaks are here again,” he whispered. “I have them on the back stairs. Shall I bring them up?”

“No, put them in touch with Mr. Polk’s office.”

“But they have a letter to you personally from General Stefanik. I knew the General was your friend; otherwise, I would not have admitted them.”

This was indeed mystifying. I knew—all the world knew—that Stefanik had met with a tragic death on a flying field near Bratislava three months before. My curiosity was now fully aroused and I asked Jean to show them in. One was a Catholic priest evidently, although he had discarded his clerical garb. The other was a small farmer with a very engaging face. They produced the letter, I recognized that it was authentic and I saw that it had been written only a few days before the Slovak soldier-leader embarked on his last flight. It read:

“Do what you can for my friends. I hope to join them in Paris soon. If possible, secure for them a hearing by the President or by Colonel House. I can vouch for the absolute truth of the statements they are authorized to make.”

Both of the Slovaks spoke a strange Magyar-German to which every now and then the priest would attach a Latin tag, but they made their purpose perfectly plain.

“Many obstacles have been placed in our way,” they explained. “All permits to travel were denied us. It has taken us three months to reach Paris with our protest, and as our presence here is illegal, we have taken refuge in a monastery where the good fathers do not have to make reports to the police or announce the arrival of guests. Our General has been foully dealt with [at the time I did not understand the full significance of these words], but with us we have brought our leader, Father Hlinka. He is ill, worn out by the hardships and the uncertainties of our clandestine journey, but he hopes you can come to him. He would like to explain the hopes and the fears of our people.”

“Come at this hour tomorrow night,” I replied, “and then I will go with you or tell you why I cannot do so.”

In the morning I explained to the Colonel what had happened and he gave his permission for me to go. “If,” he said, “you have no doubt about the Stefanik letter.”

I had none and was eager for an adventure which smacked of E. Phillips Oppenheim. Late on the following evening we left the hotel by the baggage entrance, coming out on the rue Boissy d’Anglais. We walked along in the pelting rain for several minutes before my mysterious escort would allow me to hail a cab. Then, to my amazement, they said, “Drive to the Luxembourg.” For a split second I hesitated, but after all the letter they had brought was authentic and I was clearly in the hands of Stefanik’s friends. Once at the Gardens, which were closed for the night, they dismissed the cab and we wandered about for ten minutes or so in narrow, unfamiliar streets. Twice we turned sharply and reversed our course. Only when convinced that we were not being followed did my escort lead me into what seemed to be a blind alley at the end of which we came to a halt before an iron-bound gate which, after three carefully measured knocks, was opened to us. The guardian seemed to be a priest, but as he remained in the shadows, only throwing the feeble light of his flickering lamp upon us, I could not be certain. We went on now through a gloomy garden to another gate which was open and unguarded and along a narrow corridor for about twenty yards. At the end was an alcove cell, damp and dark, where by the light of a tallow dip I saw a man fully clothed lying on a narrow iron bed reading, in low tones, his breviary. The disguised priest, my escort, said:

“This is Father Hlinka, the leader of the Slovak Peasant Party,” and with that he and his companions withdrew into the darkness of the corridor.

I assured Father Hlinka that I would listen to what he had to say and report it carefully to Colonel House; but, I said: “You have come late, and for the moment I fear nothing can be done. You see, on the tenth the Treaty of St. Germain was signed. There can be no further change in the structure of the Succession States of the former Austro-Hungarian Empire until the meeting of the Council of the League—some months hence.”

“I feared as much,” said the Father, with a sigh. “And that accounts for the extraordinary steps which the Czechs have taken to delay our arrival here. Ten years ago, Slovakia was but a two-day’s journey from Paris. Today in the New Europe, which the Czechs control, it has taken us three months to reach the City of Light, and only to find then that the light has been extinguished. I have come to protest against the falsehoods of Beneš and Kramar, and they have, not without reason, hampered me on my journey in every way. Even so, they would not have triumphed had they not silenced the voice of General Stefanik. To him, our great leader, all the assembled envoys would have listened because he worked not only for his own people, but for the Allies in the Siberian campaign and on the Italian front. Well, they silenced him—in a most dastardly manner.”

“What do you mean by this?” I inquired.

“You have been told—the whole world has been told—that General Stefanik came to his tragic end in an airplane accident. There is not a word of truth in that story. The plane that brought him from Italy made a successful landing, but as he stepped out, he was shot down by Czech soldiers placed there for this diabolical purpose by Beneš. Many know the details of this crime and by whom it was plotted, but in the present state of affairs, what can they do? The truth is also known to the general’s brother; but he is a prisoner in his village, and should he dare to say a word he would be brought before a firing squad.”

[I did not believe this story at the time, or for that matter later, when several of Stefanik’s adherents, having escaped over the mountains into Russia, told it to the world; but Hlinka believed it, as did many of his partisans, and it was this belief that made all the efforts toward a reconciliation with the Czechs hopeless.