On
St Patrick's Day, 1943, the Irish Taoiseach (Prime Minister), Eamon de Valera, father
of the Irish free State, one-time radical republican and founder of Fianna Fàil
(still Ireland's largest party), broadcast a radio speech to the nation in which he
outlined his vision of post-war Ireland as "a land whose countryside would
be bright with cosy homesteads, whose fields and villages would be joyous with
the sounds of industry, with the romping of sturdy children, the contests of
athletic youths, and the laughter of comely maidens."
Brrrr.
"Athletic youths" and "comely maidens" indeed. Pure kitsch, the very essence of fascism. One thinks, with trepidation, of Hummel figurines, or illustrations from the
Vichy press, or Der Stürmer. (Or, for that matter, Soviet Life: the art of totalitarianism was a universal one, and universally bad.)
Anyway, as the Taoiseach was blathering cozily on, German forces in Russia, having
just been badly mauled at Stalingrad, were maneuvering uneasily into position
for the climactic battle with the Soviets, which took place at Kursk in July
and resulted in another German defeat–but just barely. Like Waterloo in 1815,
Kursk in 1943 was a close-run thing. And if the Germans had managed to pull it
out, they could have avenged Stalingrad, turned the tide, taken Moscow, and
eventually planted a triumphant Hakenkreuz
above Leinster House in Dublin, welcomed with open (or stiffly upraised) arms
by Gauleiter DeValera (who was, in the event, the only head of state or
government to offer condolences upon hearing of the suicide of the Führer, in
May '45). Let's remember, when we chastise those who collaborated, that there's
a collaborator in each of us, struggling to get out when the shadows fall.
