CLOSE
Original image
Wikimedia Commons

The Balkan Chess Game

Original image
Wikimedia Commons

The First World War was an unprecedented catastrophe that killed millions and set the continent of Europe on the path to further calamity two decades later. But it didn’t come out of nowhere. With the centennial of the outbreak of hostilities coming up in August, Erik Sass will be looking back at the lead-up to the war, when seemingly minor moments of friction accumulated until the situation was ready to explode. He'll be covering those events 100 years after they occurred. This is the 100th installment in the series. 

January 24, 1914: The Balkan Chess Game

While most Europeans viewed the region as a cultural and economic backwater, the Balkans played an outsized role in continental diplomacy, as Europe’s Great Powers vied for favor by selling arms, bankrolling loans, and providing other forms of patronage to the Balkan kingdoms, all in the hopes of expanding their own influence and limiting rivals’. In the final months of peace the great Balkan chess game took a surprising turn as two big regional powers—Bulgaria and Romania—suddenly switched sides.  

For decades, the basic alignment had remained unchanged. Bulgaria was historically a client state of Russia, which freed the Slavic Bulgarians from Ottoman rule in the Russo-Turkish war of 1877-1878; that put Bulgaria on the side of the Triple Entente of Russia, France, and Britain. Meanwhile Romania leaned towards the Triple Alliance—Austria-Hungary, Germany, and Italy—because of a defensive agreement with Austria-Hungary, directed against Russia, signed in 1883 and renewed in 1892 and 1913.

The situation began to change following the First Balkan War, when the Balkan League (Bulgaria, Serbia, Greece, and Montenegro) conquered most of the Ottoman Empire’s European territory—triggering serious alarm in Austria-Hungary, which feared Serbia’s destabilizing influence on its restive Slavic population. To cut Serbia down to size, Austria-Hungary’s foreign minister, Count Berchtold, forced the Serbs to give up their recent conquests in Albania, thus preventing them from gaining access to the sea.

This set in motion a chain reaction of unexpected consequences. Deprived of their Albanian conquests, the Serbs resolved to compensate themselves by holding on to neighboring Macedonia—even though this was supposed to go to Bulgaria under the terms of their secret treaty dividing up the Turkish provinces. The Bulgarians called on their Slavic patron, Russia, to mediate the dispute, but in typical fashion Russian foreign minister Sergei Sazonov ducked responsibility for any hard decisions.

Left in the lurch by Russia, Bulgaria’s Tsar Ferdinand foolishly attacked Serbia and Greece (which was also occupying territory claimed by Bulgaria) in the Second Balkan War. This was an unmitigated disaster: the Serbs and Greeks scored major victories and Romania and Turkey, seeing a chance to grab some Bulgarian territory for themselves, attacked from the rear (Romania’s intervention is depicted in the cartoon above). Meanwhile Russia did nothing to stop them. Surrounded and overwhelmed, the Bulgarians begged for peace—and plotted revenge.

Understandably embittered by Russia’s repeated refusals to come to their aid, the Bulgarians needed a new patron among the Great Powers—preferably one that hated its treacherous former friends, Serbia and Russia. Following the age-old rule, “the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” the natural choice was Austria-Hungary, backed by the powerful German Empire. The new alliance began to take shape in July 1913, when Tsar Ferdinand dismissed Bulgaria’s pro-Russian government and appointed a pro-Austrian liberal politician, Vasil Radoslavov, to form a new cabinet. Although this move came too late to help Bulgaria in the Second Balkan War, the Bulgarians counted on Austrian and German help in a future war of revenge against their shared enemies.

The dilemma facing Austria-Hungary’s Berchtold was how to balance this new Bulgarian alliance with Austria-Hungary’s existing alliance with Romania, which had fought against Bulgaria in the Second Balkan War. In the end this task proved impossible, and a concerted diplomatic push by the Triple Entente succeeded in luring Romania away.

The Romanians already had grievances against Austria-Hungary, including discrimination against ethnic Romanians in the Hungarian half of the Dual Monarchy; they also believed the Austrians hadn’t supported their claims against Bulgaria during the Second Balkan War. On the other hand Russia supported these claims, while France exerted its powerful financial influence, maneuvering to replace Germany as Romania’s chief lender. These efforts paid off on January 16, 1914, when a “Francophile” Romanian politician, Ion Bratianu, came to power (against the wishes of Romania’s pro-German King Carol). In January the French ambassador to Romania, Blondel, reported “there is a sincere desire of closer relations with France in Romania.”

Similarly the new Russian ambassador to Romania, Poklevski, summed up the new situation in a letter to Sazonov on January 24, 1914: “Again and again, sentiments of genuine friendship for Russia have been expressed to me… an important and perhaps decisive change in public opinion has been brought about here in favor of Russia.” He added that the Romanian nationalists were gaining strength and focusing their efforts on freeing the three million ethnic Romanians living in Hungary, noting, “This latter circumstance also naturally tends to enhance Rumania’s sympathy for Russia.”

In just a few months the Balkan strategic landscape had been totally up-ended, in a way unlikely to encourage long-term stability. As Austrian chief of staff Conrad von Hötzendorf pointed out, if Romania joined Russia, Serbia, and Montenegro in a war against Austria-Hungary, the Dual Monarchy would face an unbroken wall of enemies along its southern and eastern flanks, allowing the Russians to send soldiers all the way to the Adriatic. This made it even more important to crush Serbia and break through the Balkan encirclement before it was too late.

See the previous installment or all entries

Original image
General Photographic Agency/Getty Images
arrow
History
The Day Notre Dame Students Pummeled the Ku Klux Klan
Original image
General Photographic Agency/Getty Images

At first glance, there was nothing unusual about the men who stepped off the train in South Bend, Indiana on the morning of May 17, 1924. Dapper and mannered, they drifted from the station to the downtown area. Some headed for a nearby office that sported a red cross made out of light bulbs stationed in the window. Others roamed around looking for Island Park, the site of a planned social gathering.

A closer look at these visitors revealed one common trait: Many were carrying a folded white robe under their arm. Those who had arrived earlier were fully clothed in their uniform and hood, directing automobile traffic to the park.

The Ku Klux Klan had arrived in town.

Fresh off a controversial leadership election in Indianapolis, Indiana, there was no reason for Klansmen to have any apprehension about holding a morale booster in South Bend. Indiana was Klan territory, with an estimated one in three native born white men sworn members within state lines. Just a few months later, Klansman Ed Jackson would be elected governor.

It was only when Klansmen found themselves guided into alleys and surrounded by an irate gang of Catholic students from nearby Notre Dame University that they realized mobilizing in South Bend may have been a very bad idea.

The Klan wanted a rally. What they got was a full-scale riot.

Photo of KKK Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
Indiana Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson
By IndyStar, Decemeber 12, 1922 issue, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Politically-endorsed prejudice was the order of the day in the early part of the 20th century, when the Klan—first created in 1866 to oppose Republican Reconstruction with violent racial enmity and then revived in 1915—expanded its tentacles to reach law enforcement and civil service. No longer targeting people of color exclusively, the KKK took issue with Catholics, the Jewish faith, and immigrants. An estimated 4 million Americans belonged to the Klan in the 1920s, all echoing the group’s philosophy that only white, God-fearing citizens were worthy of respect.

Under the guidance of Indiana's Grand Dragon D.C. Stephenson, the group had attempted to shift public perception from the lynch mobs of the past to an orderly and articulate assembly. Rallies were held in KKK-friendly areas; propaganda material was becoming an effective weapon for their cause. Acceptance of the Klan’s ideology seeped into political office; Stephenson was a prominent Indiana politician.

To help continue that indoctrination, the Klan made plans for a parade in South Bend to be held on May 17, 1924. That it would be in close proximity to the Notre Dame campus was no mistake: At the time, 75 percent of the school's nearly 2000 students were Catholic, a religion the Klan found abhorrent. By pledging allegiance to the Vatican, their reasoning went, Catholics were acknowledging a foreign power. In the fall of 1923, they had persisted in setting crosses on fire near the University of Dayton in Dayton, Ohio, a predominantly Catholic college, and were frequently chased off by angered football players. That December, the Klan set off firebombs in Dayton during Christmas break. While no one was seriously injured, the intent was to send a message—one they wanted to spread to Indiana.

In the weeks and months leading up to the parade, both students and faculty began to get a taste of that perspective. Copies of the Fiery Cross, the official Klan newspaper, circulated on campus; one Klansman showed up at an auditorium to broadcast that Catholics were not good Americans. He exited the stage when attendees began throwing potatoes at him.

If that public response was foreshadowing, the Klan either ignored or failed to heed the warning. Members began arriving the Friday evening prior to the rally and were met at the train station by irritated students, who scuffled with the early arrivals by ripping their robes. By Saturday morning, when more Klansmen arrived, hundreds of students were in town, a loosely organized anti-Klan task force.

Keystone Features/Getty Images

Klan members were used to breezing into towns without incident. Here, they were immediately confronted by young, ornery college kids proud of their Catholicism. Klansmen were led into alleys and tossed into walls; students who played for the school’s legendary football squad formed wedges, the offensive line-ups found on the field, and plowed into groups of Klan members like they were challenging for a state title.

The violence, swift and sudden, prompted the Klan to retreat to their headquarters in South Bend. The students followed, their blood pumping hot at the sight of the red cross lit in the office window. Below it stood a grocery store with barrels of fresh potatoes. The students lobbed them at the glass, smashing the bulbs inside.

The conflict had been uninterrupted by law enforcement, but not for lack of trying. Deputy Sheriff John Cully, himself a Klansman, tried to enlist the National Guard but was shot down by officials. Notre Dame president Matthew Walsh had already implored students not to go into town, but his words went unheeded.

Unencumbered by authority, the 100 or so students idling near the Klan’s office decided they wanted to seize the hideout. Dozens began running up the stairs but were greeted by a Klan member who produced a gun. Unarmed, the students backed off. Four seniors went back and came to an impromptu truce: The student body would disperse if the Klan agreed to hold their rally without weapons or their robes.

The agreement seemed to placate both sides until Stephenson finally arrived in town before the parade’s scheduled 6:30 p.m. start. Assessing the roughed-up Klansmen and their skittish behavior, he complained to the police, who posted officers on horseback around their assembly at Island Park.

But there would be no rally: A heavy downpour prompted Stephenson to call it off, although the potential for further violence likely weighed on his mind. Lingering students who still hadn’t returned to campus met departing Klansmen as they attempted to drive out of town, smashing windows and even tipping over one car.

By Sunday, things seemed to have settled down. Walsh cringed at newspaper reports of the incidents, fearing it would portray the students as thugs.

Unfortunately, neither side was done protesting. And when they met a second time, the robed men would be backed up by lawman Cully and a squad of 30 deputized Klansmen.

Denver News - The Library of Congress (American Memory Collection), Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Students back on campus Monday had taken to hanging up seized Klan robes and hoods on their walls like trophies. It had been a rout, with the Klan barely putting up a fight.

Now, word was spreading through the halls that the Klan had captured or perhaps had even killed a Notre Dame student. Roughly 500 students jogged the two miles back into South Bend, eager for another confrontation.

When they arrived at the Klan’s headquarters, the light bulb cross had been rebuilt. It was an act of defiance, and the students moved forward. But the Klan was prepared: Many had been deputized, and uniformed officers joined the melee. Axe handles and bottles were brandished, and blood began to stain the street. It was a clash, with parties on both sides laid out.

When he got word of the conflict, Walsh rushed to the site and climbed on top of a cannon that was part of a monument. Shouting to be heard, he implored students to return to campus. His voice cut through the sounds of breaking glass, snapping the students out of their reverie. They returned to the school.

Absent any opposition, the Klan did the same. Stragglers from out of town returned home. With bombastic prose, writers for the Fiery Cross later recapped the event by accusing Notre Dame students of “beating women and children.” Later that summer, they declared they’d be returning to South Bend in greater number.

It never happened. Although the Klan maintained an aura of strength for several more years, the conviction of Stephenson for raping and murdering a woman in November 1925 extinguished one of their most enthusiastic leaders; the Depression dampened the ability of new recruits to pay dues. By 1930, the Klan was down to an estimated 45,000 members.

While Walsh never condoned the vigilante justice exacted that weekend, he never disciplined a single student for it.

Additional Sources:
Notre Dame vs. the Klan, by Todd Tucker (Loyola Press, 2004)
"Hearing the Silence: The University of Dayton, the Ku Klux Klan, and Catholic Universities and Colleges in the 1920s" [PDF], by William Vance Trollinger

Original image
Hulton Archive/Getty Images
arrow
History
Why the Berlin Wall Rose and Fell
Original image
Hulton Archive/Getty Images

One of history's most notorious barriers broke ground early in the morning on August 13, 1961, when East German construction workers, guarded by soldiers and police, began tearing up the Berlin streets.

As European history professor Konrad H. Jarausch explains in this video from Ted-Ed, the roots of the Berlin Wall can be found in the period of instability that followed World War II. When the Allies couldn't decide how to govern Germany, they decided to split up the country between the Federal Republic of Germany in the West and the German Democratic Republic in the East. Eventually, citizens (especially young professionals) began fleeing the GDR for the greater freedoms—and higher salaries—of the West. The wall helped stem the tide, and stabilized the East German economy, but came at great cost to the East's reputation. In the end, the wall lasted less than three decades, as citizen pressures against it mounted.

You can learn more about exactly why the wall went up, and how it came down, in the video below.

[h/t The Kid Should See This]

SECTIONS

arrow
LIVE SMARTER
More from mental floss studios