In times when month-by-month events give little comfort to the hopes of men in general, and perhaps of Jews in particular, it is the task of the writer of this department to winnow out the facts from the welter of belief, propaganda, actuality, and emotion that constitutes present-day public information and opinion. Maurice J. Goldbloom has had many years of experience as a news analyst. The judgments expressed here are his own, and in no sense represent or reflect official policy.
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There were many who saw in recent developments the beginning of a political realignment in the United States. Actually, however, there had been no meaningful political alignment in this country for over a half century. Political parties, in the sense in which they were known in most other countries of the world, had not existed. In their place had been more or less fortuitous alliances of disparate elements which, although they described themselves as parties, had no common bases of principle, no effective organizational discipline, and not even any common bond of interest except the desire for power. As to the purposes which that power was intended to serve, these varied according to the individual politician, so that the aims of different elements within one “party” were often diametrically opposed. But in most cases, profit and patronage—“the cohesive power of public plunder”—seemed to be the sole and sufficient purposes animating American political life.
All this was, if not well enough, nevertheless bearable so long as the United States was characterized by an indefinitely expanding economy, capable of absorbing social strains, and blunting the edge of class and group conflicts. There were, of course, areas in which this had never been the case. In the South, with its closed colonial economy, conflicts had been real and desperate. But they had not been resolved within the framework of the traditional American two-party system. Rather, that system had broken down under the strain of a situation which threatened to infuse it with genuine political content, and had been replaced by one-party dictatorship. The Democratic party of the South had, on the whole, a real and definite political position based on preserving so far as possible the political, economic, and social relations existing before the Civil War. But, with rare exceptions, those in the South who disagreed with that position had no opportunity to make themselves felt.
In the North and West, it was only in times of economic crisis that political conflicts tended to relate themselves to real divisions of interest or ideology. At other times they centered on personalities, and were determined by the effectiveness of political machines, modified by an occasional popular desire to turn the rascals out—or to vote against Aristides because one was tired of hearing him called “the Just.”
The United States was not unique among nations in having developed this type of political system. The Conservatives of Disraeli and the Liberals of Gladstone had both united within themselves elements almost as disparate as those which formed the Democratic and Republican organizations here. But politics in England adjusted itself to the realities of modern life far sooner than in the United States, so that first the Liberal party lost its Whigs to the Conservatives, and later the Labor party arose to confront both with an opposition which challenged not merely the details of their programs but their entire frame of reference. Similarly, the growth of socialist and labor parties in other nations of the world introduced a clear line of demarcation such as American politics, nationally, never knew.
But in recent years the need for a party system capable of permitting the expression of genuine differences had been becoming ever more obvious. Even those who still defended the traditional American setup were forced to admit, with Allan Nevins, that: “The alliance of low-tariff Iowa farmers and high-tariff Pennsylvania ironmasters under the Republican aegis, and the alliance of Tammany Hall with Alabama agrarians under the Democratic banner, have not made for political honesty of the austerest type.”
What was at stake, however, was something even more important than political honesty. It was, in fact, the faith of the American people in representative institutions as an adequate instrument for the expression of their basic needs and desires. The widespread cynicism in regard to “politics” was largely traceable to the conviction that issues were decided elsewhere than at the polls. In times of prosperity, this merely resulted in a deterioration of political morality and an avoidance of all basic problems; in times of crisis, it could easily bring about the collapse of American democracy in favor of some totalitarian system capable of at least presenting an appearance of political principle.
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The Facade of Unity
The latent conflicts in the United States appeared to be bursting the traditional polical system apart at the seams at a moment when there was a greater degree of superficial popular agreement on most issues than had been the case in many years. Partly, this paradox stemmed from the fact that events of recent years had resulted in a continuous spotlight on foreign policy—a field in which many roads could lead to the same position. Again, this very factor of widespread agreement had produced Democratic and Republican candidates and platforms that were almost indistinguishable. At the same time the real issues that split American society were beginning to force themselves to the surface, after a period in which they had been overlaid by a world war and the personality of Franklin Roosevelt.
The effects of this contradiction between the forms of politics and its content were most obvious in the case of the Democratic party, whose elements in recent years had in any case been even more various than those of the Republicans. The latter party, too, had the prospect of office to reconcile its antagonistic elements, if not to each other, at least to each other’s company.
It was mostly, though by no means entirely, from those who had voted Democratic in the recent past that Henry Wallace drew his support. To a large extent, those who voted for him would do so not out of principle but out of disgust with the meaninglessness of the Democratic and Republican alternatives. Perhaps a fourth of his votes would come from those who consciously or unconsciously accepted at least a major part of the position of his Communist sponsors. Another, probably somewhat smaller, section of his support would derive from pacifists and conservative isolationists in revolt against the bi-partisan foreign policy. Colonel McCormick was unlikely to cast his ballot for Wallace, but some who accepted his general position undoubtedly would. The largest group of Wallace supporters, however, seemed likely to consist of persons having little in common with his announced position. Thus the Gallup Poll showed that a majority of those who expected to vote for Wallace favored the Marshall Plan and believed that American policy towards Russia was insufficiently “tough.” Most of them—as well as many who would vote the tickets of the two old parties—would probably have preferred to support a non-Communist progressive party, had one been in the field. And they might yet rally to one after this election if those liberal and labor leaders who had long accepted its necessity in theory but always maintained that the time was not ripe, were at last to decide that a beginning could no longer be postponed.
Such a development might conceivably even be hastened by the other rebellion besetting the Democratic organization. For, though the cause of Southern discontent was the adoption (over the opposition of administration forces) of a civil-rights plank satisfactory to liberals and labor groups, its effect was to decrease that chance of election which formed the principal attraction binding those groups to the Democratic party. At the same time, neither a position on civil rights so long belied by the administration’s consistent failure to implement it in the armed forces and the Canal Zone—both of them, places where no legislation was required—nor a Democratic demand for the repeal of the Taft-Hartley Act, passed with the support of half the Democrats in Congress, seemed likely to be sufficient to retain the enthusiastic support of the liberals.
For the moment, however, most of these were looking around rather disconsolately for a place to go. Their coalition with the Southern Democrats on behalf of General Eisenhower had—perhaps fortunately for them—been frustrated by the General’s persistent unwillingness to leave Morningside Heights. It was doubtful if Henry Wallace would at this stage acquire the support of many who were not yet committed to him. A few would unquestionably regard Thomas E. Dewey as the lesser evil. Some of the more politically sophisticated seemed likely to vote for Norman Thomas on the Socialist ticket. But the majority of the liberals and laborites would probably go listlessly to the polls on election day to cast a reluctant ballot for Harry Truman, in memory of the man who had chosen him for the vice presidency in 1944.
Even without the loss of the two or three Southern states which might be expected to go for the secessionist ticket of J. Strom Thurmond and Fielding Wright, however, President Truman’s chances of re-election did not appear bright. And the loss of federal patronage, as well as many local offices, which appeared in prospect, would still further weaken the cement holding together the pieces of the Democratic party.
But any major political realignment still belonged to the future. The present reality was that, whether Governor Dewey achieved his expected victory or President Truman confounded all the prophets, neither American domestic nor American foreign policy was likely to be significantly altered.
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The basic aspects of American foreign policy depended far less on decisions made in Washington than on those arrived at in Moscow. If the Soviet Union was determined to dominate Europe at the cost of war, Washington might hasten or delay the showdown slightly, but it could not preserve the peace except at a price which the people of the United States clearly would not accept. If, on the other hand, the Soviet Union was intent on peace, no American government would seek war.
The key to Russia’s intentions seemed still to be Berlin. Here, the Soviet blockade of the Western powers was entering its second month. After some initial hesitation, the United States and Britain had clearly stated their intention of remaining in the city despite the Russian stoppage of surface traffic. And they had implemented their determination by flying in huge tonnages of food and other essentials. Within a short period they were bringing in over two thousand tons by air each day; it was expected that, when additional planes had been brought to Germany and landing fields in Berlin had been expanded, this might be almost tripled.
The air supply of Berlin was an impressive demonstration of the technical virtuosity of the Western powers, as well as of their will to hold Berlin. In both respects, it immensely strengthened their position in the battle for Germany and Europe. But, while it could avert starvation and keep Berlin alive, it could not furnish the city a basis for a normal existence. Only a resumption of surface communications could do that.
These communications did not necessarily have to be with the West, however. American military authorities in Berlin offered to pay dollars, at more than the world price, for Czech potatoes and Polish coal if these were delivered in Berlin. Both countries needed the dollars, and had unsalable surpluses of the commodities in question. (The Poles had been unsuccessfully offering their coal to Western European nations which preferred to meet their needs elsewhere.) But the Soviet Union refused to provide them with transit facilities to Berlin, and they were consequently forced to refuse the offer, a fact whose significance was not likely to be lost on the people of either country.
The main hope of relieving the siege of Berlin of course lay in bringing direct pressure to bear on the Russians. With this purpose in view, the three Western powers sent almost identical notes to the Soviet Union. All demanded the reopening of normal communications between Berlin and the West; all asserted that neither threats nor pressure would induce them to leave the city; and all offered to negotiate points of disagreement in regard to Berlin, provided the blockade were first lifted. The Russian reply declared that, by taking steps to set up a West German government, the Western powers had violated the agreements on which their presence in Berlin was based and forfeited all right to stay there. In turn, it asked for negotiations on the whole German question. And it made no promises in regard to lifting the blockade. But on the other hand it did not specifically declare that this would continue. And, at the same time that they were replying to the Western notes, the Russians announced the suspension of two German railroad officials on a charge of neglecting to keep the tracks on the line to the West in proper repair. As long as they kept up the pretense that “technical difficulties” were responsible for the barring of rail and road traffic to Berlin, it was possible for them to back down with a minimum of embarrassment. But whether they would do so remained to be seen.
Meanwhile, the Western powers prepared to take further diplomatic action. It was rumored that the next step would be a renewed demand for the reopening of traffic, this time with a deadline. This was likely to be coupled both with a threat of further action, and with a somewhat broader offer to negotiate than that in the previous note. If the Russians were still adamant, the Western powers were reported ready to take the case before the Security Council. That body would, of course, be subject to a Soviet veto if it were to consider sanctions; short of that, however, the USSR would be unable to block consideration of a case in which it was itself charged with aggression. And if the Council were once to rule Russia an aggressor, the Western powers would be placed in an excellent moral position for the application of those economic sanctions which they had at their command. Such sanctions would probably not cripple the Russian economy, but they would impose a burden on it which would be a high price to pay for continuing the blockade of Berlin.
Meanwhile, of course, the possibility of an “incident” remained. Yet it did not seem likely that anything short of deliberate and systematic shooting would be permitted by either side to precipitate war. Certainly the United States was not apt to permit anything less to provoke it to the ultimate step; if the Soviet Union chose to regard a minor incident as a casus belli, it would only be because the Russian leaders had made up their minds to fight.
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One factor which was likely to cause the Kremlin to hesitate before starting a war was the sudden break between Moscow and the Yugoslav Communists. Nothing precisely similar had ever happened before; Communist parties had occasionally broken with the Comintern in the good old days, but the latter had always been able to reconstitute a band of true believers to replace the heretics. In Yugoslavia, however, the situation was different. Tito was in power, and, as the bulletin of the Com-inform so accurately pointed out, his secret police were ubiquitous.
It was difficult to determine the precise cause of the break between Tito and Moscow. The statement of the Com-inform denouncing the Yugoslav party accused it of a list of crimes including Menshevism, Trotskyism, Bukharinism, going too fast, not going fast enough, excessive nationalism, subservience to the West, and putting spies on the trail of Russian representatives in Yugoslavia. Obviously, not all of these charges could be true simultaneously. The last, despite a Yugoslav denial, almost certainly was. For in the course of the exchange of billingsgate which followed, it developed that Tito had seized and imprisoned—as crypto-fascists—two members of his cabinet on whom Moscow had been relying to undermine his position among Yugoslav Communists.
This did not, however, explain why the Com-inform had started to plot against him in the first place. Publicly, he had been as loyal to the Soviet bloc as it could ask. His anti-Western orientation had been demonstrated almost daily by incidents between Yugoslav and British or American forces in Trieste and on the Carinthian border, as well as by a steady barrage of abuse in the Yugoslav press. And he had the largest and best-equipped army of any Soviet satellite.
The most probable explanation appeared to be that Tito was actually enough of a Yugoslav nationalist to interfere seriously with Russian policy at times. Thus, a Yugoslav gesture in regard to Trieste just before the Italian elections might have been of great value to the Italian Communists. Instead, the declaration of the Western powers in favor of that city’s return to Italy went uncountered—except by the obviously unacceptable proposal to exchange Trieste, which Yugoslavia did not have, for Gorizia, which Italy did have.
Again, Tito had been pressing for the formation of a Balkan federation, which he hoped and the Russians apparently feared that he would dominate. And shortly before the publication of the Cominform’s attack, Yugoslav Communists had publicly charged that some Bulgarian leaders had imperialist designs on Yugoslav Macedonia.
Perhaps this unwillingness to sacrifice his own ambitions to the will of Moscow was the basic cause of the split. Yet even so, the timing of the Cominform’s attack was surprising. Certainly, coming in the midst of the Berlin crisis, it did not strengthen Russia’s hand there. Perhaps Tito’s arrest of its agents led the Cominform to act precipitately, in the hope that an open attack would bring about a revolt in the Yugoslav party before Tito had time to carry through a thorough purge. Perhaps it was merely that, once the internal conflict had been begun by the Russian party’s original circulation of charges against the Yugoslavs, the timetable was more or less automatic. But it was also possible that the Cominform’s public attack on Tito was quite deliberately timed to embarrass Soviet Foreign Commissar Molotov. For, next to Stalin, the most prominent members of the Politburo were Molotov and Andrei Zhdanov—the head of the Cominform. If anything happened to Stalin, one or the other of them seemed likely to be his successor. And the fact that Stalin took no apparent part either in the Yugoslav dispute or in that over Berlin made it necessary to consider the possibility that his health was failing.
Whatever the cause of the dispute between Russia and Yugoslavia, there could be no question that it weakened the Soviet bloc. Yugoslavia might still not wish to ally herself with the West. But she could not stand alone indefinitely, and the Russians quickly made it clear that they were not prepared to consider the Yugoslav state as an ally after the expulsion of the Yugoslav Communists from the Cominform. (Indeed, the Soviet Union had never seemed to regard an alliance on equal terms as conceivable, unless the other partner was itself a great power; in all other cases, alliance had been merely the cloak for or the prelude to subjugation.) One after another, the other Communist parties of the world contributed their quota of denunciation to the campaign against Tito. And the Communist-dominated states of Eastern Europe invoked sanctions against the Yugoslavs. Thus Rumania ceased deliveries of oil to Tito, and Albania—always regarded as a satellite of Yugoslavia, because of its geographical position and diminutive size—expelled various Yugoslav missions and cut off trade between the two countries. One reported result of this use of economic warfare to bring Yugoslavia into line was a Yugoslav effort to purchase oil from Britain and the United States. In the United States, the American Committee for Yugoslav Relief—listed by the Attorney General as a Communist front—anounced that it was disbanding.
The area where the split between Tito and the Cominform was most likely to have an immediate effect was Greece. Here, the Communist rebels received aid from Bulgaria, Albania—and Yugoslavia. But their leader, General Markos, had endorsed the Cominform’s attack on Tito. Henceforth, Yugoslav aid for the Greek guerillas was not likely to be significant. Albanian assistance, too, seemed likely to decrease, since Albania’s economy was so closely tied up with that of Yugoslavia that the disruption of commerce between the two countries was likely to have severe adverse effects o! the smaller.
There was also another aspect of the rift between Albania and Yugoslavia which deserved consideration. For the border between the two countries could easily become the scene of armed conflict. And a war at the mouth of the Adriatic would not necessarily remain localized, since Russia could hardly avoid intervening on behalf of Albania if—as was almost certain—Tito seemed likely to be victorious.
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Other Rifts in the Curtain
If the Yugoslav revolt was the most spectacular sign of discontent within the Soviet orbit, it was not the only one. In Czechoslovakia, there still seemed to be many who were not altogether reconciled to Communist dictatorship. Some evidence of this was supplied by the stream of fugitive politicians and army officers who continued to slip across the border into the US zone of Germany, as well as by the numerous arrests for espionage and conspiracy which the Czech government announced almost daily. And there was a striking display of opposition to the regime at the Sokol festival in Prague. Many of the marchers carried small American flags, while others shouted a demand for ex-President Benes and averted their faces when they passed the reviewing stand where Communist President Gottwald stood. (There was also considerable applause when the visiting Yugoslav Sokols deployed themselves to spell out Tito’s name—since this was after the Cominform’s attack.)
And in Hungary, New York Times correspondent John MacCormac reported that there was a sharp rivalry for Communist leadership between Premier Rakosi and Minister of the Interior Rajk. MacCormac cited as one point of difference the fact that Rakosi was a Jew and Rajk an anti-Semite, whose brother had been a leading Nazi. He also said that Rajk—who had charge of the police—believed in mass executions of political opponents, while Rakosi wished to be more selective.
In Rumania, too, all was not happy in the Communist family. There, power was gradually concentrating in the hands of Moscow-trained Ana Pauker, while other leaders suffered eclipse. Thus, Lucretiu Patrascanu—Communist member of the junta which had overthrown the Antonescu dictatorship—was now in disgrace, and Vice-Premier Gheorgiu-Dei seemed about to follow him.
All this might, and probably would, eventually lead to a firmer consolidation of the dictatorships in these countries, just as the downfall and slaughter of the Old Bolsheviks had in Russia. But from the Russian point of view, the time for a war was after that consolidation had been accomplished, not while it was in process.
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The struggle for Europe surrounded the conflict in Palestine with a certain air of unreality. For any solution of the Palestinian question could have meaning only in a world at peace; if war came, the Middle East would be a major battleground, and its states would be certain to be occupied by the armies of one or the other belligerent and their sovereignty reduced to a pale fiction.
Meanwhile, however, Jews and Arabs took the question of Palestine seriously enough. So did the United Nations mediator, Count Bernadotte, although his zeal was not always pleasing to either of the parties to the dispute. Both were restive under his strict enforcement of the conditions of the truce; neither welcomed his proposals for a permanent settlement. Indeed, it was doubtful whether Count Bernadotte actually hoped that these would prove acceptable. For the Arabs were asked not merely to accept the existence of the State of Israel, but to yield it relatively fertile Western Galilee in exchange for the parched Negev. At the same time, the Jews were called on to relinquish all claim to Jerusalem, and to permit it to become part of an Arab state formed out of Transjordan and part of Palestine. And immigration, after the first two years, was to be subject to UN review in terms of the principle of absorptive capacity. To each side, this represented a retreat from positions many times emphatically reiterated; it was therefore not surprising that neither found the Bemadotte proposals satisfactory.
Probably the real purpose of the proposals—delivered as they were only a few days before the truce was due to expire—was to maintain a degree of negotiation which would serve to justify the extension of the truce. The avoidance of renewed warfare was a goal which took precedence over all others. The longer fighting continued, the more meager the resources which Palestine would offer for division between the contending parties.
And the great powers were also committed—one was tempted to say, beyond their depth—in regard to the issue. On the one hand, Britain’s laboriously acquired foothold in the Arab world, as well as her quarter century as the mandatory power for Palestine, made a total withdrawal from the area impossible, however much she might desire it. Though the last British troops left Palestine on June 30, a month ahead of schedule, Britain still retained interests and responsibilities, both in Palestine and the Arab states, of which she was unable to divest herself. On the other, the United States was becoming ever more deeply involved politically, although American economic interests in the Middle East were still not a major factor. Having first sponsored partition and then, after various waverings and hesitations, given the new State of Israel its blessing, the United States had assumed an inescapable responsibility for the future of the area. As to the Soviet Union, that power was only too anxious to undertake further commitments in regard to Palestine.
Hence when, on July 9, the truce ended and fighting resumed in Palestine, the great powers were unable to accept the situation as final, and the Security Council ordered a new truce of indefinite duration. Count Bernadotte had asked a thirty day extension, and then one of ten days. Both proposals had been accepted by Israel, but rejected by the Arab League on the ground that the previous truce had worked to the advantage of Israel by permitting it to build up its military strength.
There seemed some reason to believe that this had actually been the case. In Jerusalem, the UN’s truce commission had complained to the Security Council of Jewish aggression, including the seizure of strategic buildings flying the UN flag. But a more basic reason for the Arab rejection of Bernadotte’s request for an extension of the truce appeared to be a division within the Arab League. In this, Abdullah of Transjordan seemed to be on one side and all the rest of the Arab states on the other. Under Bernadotte’s settlement proposals—which were generally believed to have the support in principle if not in detail of Britain and the US—all the Arab parts of Palestine would have been given to Abdullah. He therefore had some reason to waver on the question of principle. The other Arab states, on the other hand, could only regard the aggrandizement of Abdullah as a consummation to be avoided. Syria and Lebanon feared that an enlarged Transjordan would threaten their independence; Egypt, whose troops had actual control of most of the Negev, was no more anxious to transfer it to Abdullah than to Israel. (So strong was Egypt’s opposition to a new truce that she resumed fighting before the expiration of the old one.)
But despite the opposition of the Arab states, one very potent force was working to compel them to renew the truce. Britain, without waiting for the Security Council to act, announced that she would continue her embargo on arms to the Arabs, and would moreover hold up the quarterly subsidy payment due Abdullah. Since the American embargo on arms to the Middle East remained in effect, and since the Russians and their satellites were loath to sell the Arabs arms except for scarce dollars, this meant that the Arabs were at a grave disadvantage. All pro-British elements were forced out of the cabinets of Egypt and Iraq, and even in Amman there were demonstrations against “British imperialism.” But the British position remained unchanged.
It was therefore very difficult for the Arabs to resist the Security Council’s new truce order. Abdullah, who was most drastically affected by the sanctions which the British imposed, again pressed for acceptance. Apparently, he backed up his argument by intimating that the Arab Legion might not be able to continue effective action if the League rejected the UN order. In any case, the League reluctantly acceded to it, but asked that the truce be given a definite duration, that all Jewish immigration to Palestine be suspended during it, and that provision be made for the return of Arab refugees to the homes from which they had been driven.
It was one thing, however, to secure the agreement of both parties to a truce and another to guarantee that it would be observed. Count Bernadotte’s staff—never altogether sufficient—had been dissolved in the interim between the two truces; until it was reconstituted, there was a constant danger that one side or the other would seek to gain additional advantages before there were observers on the scene. Such incidents could easily lead to reprisal and even the resumption of full scale war.
Certainly the events of the first few days of the new truce were disturbing. Even in Jerusalem, where a cease-fire had been ordered and accepted two days before that in the rest of Palestine, it had almost immediately been broken by a large-scale battle. This had apparently been the result of a disagreement as to the terms of the ceasefire; Israeli troops had attacked and seized the suburb of Ein Karim on the ground that it was outside the municipal limits of Jerusalem and hence not covered by the truce, and the Arab Legion in Jerusalem proper had retaliated. Subsequently, there were a number of other skirmishes in Jerusalem, with each side accusing the other of aggression.
Elsewhere, the situation was even worse. Charging that the Syrians had recaptured a village within the borders of Syria after the time of the cease-fire, and that there had been other aggressions by Syrian and Iraqi troops, Israel announced that it would continue the war against both states. In the South, there were occasional skirmishes between Jewish and Egyptian troops. And the Egyptians charged that a plane had bombed Cairo.
Nevertheless, violations of the truce seemed likely to subside when Count Bernadotte and his new staff reached Palestine. When there were observers on the spot to apportion the blame, and if necessary to recommend penalties, neither side would have any further excuse for attempting to restrain the truce violations of the other by retaliating in kind.
It was still questionable, however, whether the cessation of actual warfare would by itself be sufficient to create an atmosphere conducive to the making of peace. If the Arabs had somewhat modified their position since the beginning of the war, they still remained bitterly opposed to the existence of the State of Israel. So far, the nearest that any Arab spokesman had come to accepting the idea of a Jewish state in Palestine was Arab League Secretary Azzam Pasha’s proposal that the Jews be given a small area as a sort of “Vatican State.” This, he said, might be anywhere—“even in Tel Aviv.” But he insisted that the remainder of Palestine should be made into a single Palestinian state, “protecting both Arabs and Jews.”
If the Arabs held to their original demands in most respects, the Zionists appeared to have increased theirs. In addition to the territory which they had been allotted under the Assembly resolution, they now spoke with increasing frequency of holding what they had conquered by the sword—or at least enough of it to make the outlines of their state somewhat less illogical than the Assembly’s partition resolution had done.
Certainly Count Bernadotte would not have an easy time bringing agreement out of the present Arab and Zionist positions. Nor, failing agreement, did there seem to be in the offing any effective way of enforcing a decision. As Belgium had pointed out in the Security Council’s discussion of possible sanctions if either side failed to heed the cease-fire order, the Berlin situation did not give promise of that great-power cooperation which alone could make possible the UN’s use of force. As for economic sanctions, the Arab states appeared to have economic weapons which, in the present state of world affairs, could prove at least as deadly as any which might be used against them.
Nevertheless, Count Bernadotte appeared determined to continue his efforts to obtain an agreement between the warring parties, despite Soviet protests that this was not the proper function of a mediator.
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