AUSTRIA: An American Abroad

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The diplomats in Paris last week called it—using the words in a technical sense—”a simple question.”

The simple question was Austria: a country of 32,000 square miles and 7,000,000 inhabitants, stretching from the edge of the Slav lands across the heart of Europe to within a hundred miles of the French frontier. It was a country whose life was drawn & quartered by four jealously sealed occupation zones, whose economy was nearly dead, whose hungry, tired people were nearly hopeless. To a world heavy with sorrow, it was a country whose very misery seemed unimportant, except in terms of the great struggle between Russia and the West.

In Vienna last week, the simple question took strange forms. The Russians promised that their exuberant flyers would stop using U.S. passenger planes for target practice; next day, they used U.S. airfield installations instead. The Red Army had seized the head offices of the Danube Shipping Co., while the U.S. still held on tightly to the company’s barges in the U.S. zone. Meanwhile the Russians presented to the Austrian Government a 43 million schilling bill for “food supplied to Vienna”; most of which Austria’s peasants had taken from Austria’s own soil.

Blessings of Liberation. Toward this chaos of simplicity, a tall, gangling officer was speeding back last week, after a brief breathing spell in Italy. General Mark Wayne Clark, commander of the U.S. occupation forces, found nothing unusual in these alarms and confusions. It was just an average week, and Clark could still claim with justice that Big Four relations in Vienna were better (or less visibly bad) than anywhere else in Europe.

When Clark came to Vienna ten months ago, from the Italian front, he found the Russians already in full and resolute control. They had got over their wild initial spell of raping and looting, and were engaged in the orderly transport to Russia of $100 million worth of factory equipment and raw materials. They had swathed Vienna in red flags (mostly Nazi flags with swastikas removed), were feeding the Viennese less than 1,000 calories a day, flooding the country with worthless occupation marks, and were rapidly gaining an iron grip on Austrian economy.

Clark picked out a large, comfortable office in Vienna’s massive National Bank Building for indispensable paper work, and a large, comfortable villa on the outskirts of the U.S. zone for no less indispensable banquets; then he started to see what could be done about the Russians.

Clark’s first concern was food. He informed Marshal Ivan S. Konev that he intended to raise the daily calorie level to 1,550 as soon as possible. But, he added, “I know how I would feel if we had been in here first and you came in and immediately raised the food level. It would seem like a deliberate slap in the face. For that reason, I intend to do it gradually.” Ever since then, Clark has hammered away at the Russians to maintain decent rations.

Battle of Giants. Early this month, when UNRRA declared that it could not continue feeding Austria unless help was forthcoming from the occupation armies, Clark declared in the Allied Control Council that all U.S. surplus stores (which had accumulated under his stringent conservation orders) were available for the purpose. With an eye on the Austrian Food Minister, who was present at the session, he declared: “I had hoped my Soviet colleagues would want to participate in alleviating the suffering of the Austrian people, but as they won’t, the U.S. will do it alone.” After hurried consultation, the Russians decided to participate.

Through similar diplomatic maneuvers, Clark 1) curbed inflation, by barring Russia’s access to Austrian currency reserves; 2) pressed down exorbitant Russian occupation cost levies by more than half; 3) slowed down the Russians’ grabbing of “German assets” under the loosely drawn Potsdam agreement. The Russians still refuse even to discuss a definition of what constitutes a German asset, claiming as German everything the Nazis stole from the Austrians.

Clark quickly learned how to use the Russians’ obvious weaknesses. When they seized the Zistersdorf oilfields, he innocently inquired during a Council session: “Supposing we consider pig iron. Do you need any?” The interpreter snapped back: “Marshal Konev wishes General Clark to know that the Soviet Union does not need pig iron from anyone.” Replied Clark quietly: “All right then, let’s take the case of oil.” The Russians, who never admit publicly that the Red Army needs oil, agreed to let almost the entire Zistersdorf output go to cover Austria’s own needs.

Despite such maneuvers, the Russians still like Clark, respectfully refer to him as the “American Eagle.” When Marshal Konev recently presented him with a bird dog puppy, Clark declared he would name it Ya Soglasen (Russian for “I agree”). Konev wanted to know why. “Because,” said Clark, “this is a word I use so seldom otherwise.”

Uses of Publicity. Clark talks (and sometimes curses) out of the side of his mouth, though his vocabulary of profanity is limited; his favorite epithet, which he shares with Ike Eisenhower, is “ybsob” (code for yellow-bellied s.o.b.). Clark is no intellectual, knows little and cares less about art and literature; friends estimate that his yearly ration of books amounts to two at the most.

Perhaps Clark’s greatest asset is his personal charm, his biggest failing an insatiable appetite for publicity. (Once, during a concert in Salzburg, he suddenly appeared in his box bathed in bluish light while the orchestra played ruffles & flourishes.) But he has managed to turn even this fault to good use. Whenever the Russians are too adamant he calls in the boys of the press. He has found that Moscow is sensitive to U.S. and world public opinion; on occupation matters—such as Russia’s recent-land-grab attempt in Burgenland—the Reds sometimes bow to hostile press criticism.

In Vienna, Clark leads a simple, hardworking life. His wife Maurine is working on an occupation diary, and preparing to organize a U.S. wives’ club. His daughter Ann, 19, and his son William, 20, are both in Austria. His pet cocker spaniel Pal is now famed through his master’s bitter crack: “Here are the Russians with 150,000 troops and here I am with my cocker spaniel.”

Clark is an indefatigable stroller; he likes to roam about the Vienna Woods, from where he can get a look at the city as a whole—at the neat patterns of villas in the U.S. zone, at the sooty, rambling factories in the Russian zone, and at the Danube that flows, a grey, swift dividing line, between the two.

The Danube is a traditional boundary: East has met West there before. The Avari, Huns, Magyars, Turks—all tried to break into Europe through the country which Charlemagne called his Ostmark (eastern frontier). Today again, legions from the East stand at the Danube, and again a battle is being waged for a bridgehead to Europe’s heart.

Littler than Least. Vienna in the late spring of 1946 was a broken city. The baroque grandeur of its stone merely served as a backdrop for uncleared rubble, and the remnants of its once-blithe spirit were merely counterpoints to present hopelessness. Within the brief flash of 30 years, Vienna had in turn been the gay and gilded center of an empire, the outsized capital of a bankrupt rump republic, a subordinate, provincial town in Nazi Germany, and the cringing wartime scene of bombings, street fighting, burning, looting.

Ever since the middle of the war, the Viennese have felt hunger. Today, Vienna’s once brimming Naschmarkt is closed down except for an occasional cabbage or flower counter, and Viennese eat about as much in one day as an American eats for breakfast. The weekly ration (except for heavy workers) consists of one loaf of bread, two ounces of dried meat, three ounces of fat, a cup and a half of flour, a cup and a half of dried peas and five ounces of sugar. Many Viennese know that they would not be eating at all this month if it had not been for Clark’s efforts, but, as traditional Raunzer (gripers), they are now telling each other that the grammar rules on “little” ought to be amended to “little, less, least, UNRRA.”

The Viennese are drably dressed these days, for there are no textiles anywhere in Austria; on the black market a pair of men’s shoes costs $200, and a pair of silk stockings $25. Vienna’s health is poor, with 1,000 new TB cases each month and a heavy VD rate.

“Dear Old Spire.” On his strolls through the city, Clark might walk through parks in which bank clerks now plant vegetable gardens, though many parks had already been used for another purpose: the burying of Red Army dead. The Hotel Sacher, which had witnessed much of the monarchy’s history and more of its amours, is now a British officers’ club. In the Kärntner Strasse (Vienna’s Fifth Avenue) the stores are gaping and shattered; at the Cathedral of St. Stephen, Nazi artillery and flames have left the foreparts of the choir and the high altar exposed to the sky. But its 500-year-old spire still rises above Vienna in slender majesty. Viennese, this spring, revived an old song: “Dear old spire of St. Stephen’s, you will pull through this one too.”

Its miraculous survival was one of the few signs of comfort the Viennese found in their city. Another was the battered but unbowed survival of the huge community housing projects which Vienna’s Socialists had built for their workers in their brief, triumphant decades before Hitler. The gaunt spire in the center of the city and the workers’ fortresslike homes on the outskirts (which Catholic Chancellor Dolfuss shelled in the bitter years of civil discord) were both symbols of Vienna’s different pasts. They were also symbols of two sturdy European forces, Catholicism and Socialism. From the present cooperation between them Austria drew some hope and the strength—scarce in Europe today—of holding out against Communism.

Strangely enough, the government that tied Catholics and Socialists together got its start through the Russians. At Easter-time 1945, when the Russians were driving into Austria, Socialist Sage Dr. Karl Renner, one of the country’s few surviving elder statesmen, found himself in Gloggnitz, a small town 40 miles from Vienna. The Red Army entered the town, and all Easter Sunday and Monday, Dr. Renner waited for something interesting to happen. Nothing did. Bored, Renner set out on Tuesday for a stroll along Gloggnitz’ Main Street. Relates Renner with massive calm: “After a while, I came upon two men, one of whom knew a little Russian. He guided me to local Russian headquarters. Here I had an opportunity to explain some of the ideas that I had formulated to protect our people and resume normal life.”

Five days later, Dr. Karl Renner was head of the new Austrian republic.

“He Is Too Young.” If the Russians had hoped to find a puppet in Renner, they were sorely disappointed. A pure, anti-Communist Socialist, he has quietly boxed in all those left-wingers who might favor a merger with the Communists (for which Russia is pressing). Despite his age (76), Renner has taken a decisive hand in the business of his country. (Cracked one of his political opponents: “He is too young to be President.”)

Renner is proud that Austria has a sovereign government with its own police force, vigorously reminds the Allies that Austria, unlike Germany, is to be treated as a liberated and not as a conquered nation, according to the Moscow pact.* He also keeps storming against Austria’s partition into occupation zones. The quadripartition has completely paralyzed the Austrian economy. Renner also fights a running verbal battle (probably futile) for the return of Southern Tyrol, ably supported by Austria’s Dr. Karl Gruber.

Chancellor under Renner is Leopold Figl, of the Catholic Volkspartei (People’s Party). The party is the direct descendant of Dollfuss’ and Schuschnigg’s Christian Socialists, though it now favors (still a little halfheartedly) nationalization of key industries and has been purged (at least officially) of fascists. Despite public political friendship, Figl does not get on well with Renner. Unlike Socialist Renner, who comes from a bourgeois family but has lived it down, Figl comes from peasant stock and tries to live up to it. He has a peasant’s stubborn strength and stubborn limitations, along with the rural Austrian’s strong belief in the efficacy of wine and prayer.

Who Is a Communist? During last year’s Austrian elections, a quip was heard around the polls: “Nobody who owns a watch is Communist in Austria.” When the returns were in, the Communists had managed to roll up only 5% of the country’s vote (the Volkspartei polled some 50%, the Socialists some 45%). From their brief intermezzo of glory under Russia’s exclusive occupation, they retained only one dull portfolio (Power & Electricity) and three seats in Parliament.

The Russians were deeply disappointed in their Austrian comrades. When Clark and Konev recently discussed Austrian politicians, the name of Austria’s lanky, long-haired Communist Boss Ernst Fischer came up. Said Clark, half jesting, half in earnest: “I don’t like him because he is a Communist.” Said Konev: “That’s fine, I don’t like him either because he is an Austrian Communist.”

The Russians have tried hard to fight their own and Communism’s unpopularity: to gain music-loving Vienna’s favor, they ordered opera performances to be resumed last May. It was symbolic of Austrian-Russian relations that the Viennese claimed a singer in The Marriage of Figaro had been raped three times by Russian soldiers the day before the opening. To Vienna the chief villain is General Alexei Zheltov, Konev’s second in command, who is believed by most observers to be more powerful than Konev. Zheltov is a member of the NKVD, is secretive about his past, talks suavely, narrows his eyes when he gets excited, was once a wrestler (220 Ibs.) and is usually described by U.S. correspondents as bullnecked. (Recently he insisted on finding out what the word meant, was furious when he did.)

Who May Play Cards? The Austrians like the Americans well enough. Viennese, who have good-naturedly renamed jeeps Schlampenschlepper (hussy buggies), fraternize with zest. But Austrians live in an old, proud civilization, still sprinkled with feudal glitter; while they fear that Russia might smash it completely, they are not so sure that the Americans, with their strange, casual-tough ways, might not harm it too. They would like to get rid of all occupiers, Eastern and Western alike. Viennese cabaret skits express their mood. Samples:

¶ Columbus stands in awe before a gang of drinking, striking, shooting Americans. Says he: “I can’t possibly discover America. What would they say in Europe when I tell them what I have seen?”

¶ The Congress of Vienna convenes in 1815 (though it looks suspiciously like the Foreign Ministers Conference in Paris, 1946). Wellington, Talleyrand and Alexander, Czar of all the Russias, are about to sit down to a game of cards with Austria’s Metternich. Cries the Czar: “Austria play cards on an equal basis with the big powers? Impossible!”

How Flows the Danube? In Paris last week, Comrade Molotov was echoing Czar Alexander. Though he admitted Austria to the agenda as a “simple question,” he still refused to discuss a full-fledged peace treaty. Russia’s unwillingness to pull out was the only reason why Austria still suffered the burden of occupation. Russia’s motives were obvious: 1) the continued presence of the Red Army in Austria gives the Russians a good excuse to keep troops in all countries between Austria and Russia (Poland, Czechoslovakia, Rumania, Hungary) “to maintain communication lines”; 2) the longer occupied Austria’s present unemployment dissatisfaction and general stagnation continue, the bigger grow Russia’s chances of absorbing Austria into the Soviet orbit.

Communist Boss Fischer puts it smugly. After all, he is fond of saying, the Danube flows east.

It would take a great deal to turn the Danube around. Mark Clark had done more than any man to help give Austria the means and the courage for independence. But he knows that what is needed most is an end to Austria’s divided existence and some hope for the future for its people. Last week, at what used to be the Heurigen (new wine) season, Viennese went out to the winding streets of Grinzing and the gently sloping vineyards of Gumpoldskirchen to taste the vintage of 1946. Like hope, the year’s new wine was scarce and sour.

* Conquered Germans disagree. Last week they were telling this bitter joke: a large boy and a small boy broke into a store window. The storekeeper came out, furious, and beat up the large boy, who ran away howling. The small boy stepped up to the still gesticulating storekeeper and said: “You owe me ten marks.” “Why?” exploded the storekeeper. “I am an Austrian,” the small boy replied.