From Stay Alive! Berlin 1939-1945, by Ian Buruma (Penguin, 2026), pp. 50-51:
The next air raid, on September 9, was as harmless as the first. The alarm lasted for forty-five minutes, but nothing happened at all. This, too, helped to further calm the nerves of Berliners. Helmuth von Moltke wrote to his wife from Berlin that “an infectious optimism has spread in the well-known way of mass psychology; the optimistic assumption is that the people of France won’t fight; it is claimed that French soldiers put big placards on their bunkers, in German: ‘If you don’t shoot, we won’t start.’ The story seems too fantastic. Still, it is true that nearly a week after the outbreak of the war the French and British have not yet done anything to come to the aid of their ally [Poland].”
Moltke had been drafted into the Abwehr, the military intelligence service, run by Wilhelm Canaris, a Nazi supporter who began to turn against Hitler after the invasion of Poland. As an intelligence insider, Moltke knew more than most people, but even he was puzzled by the lack of action from the Allied powers. Many Berliners hoped this meant that the war would be over soon. Surely, the occupation of Poland would be accepted as a fait accompli, just as the invasion of Czechoslovakia and the annexation of Austria had been in 1938. Rumors of imminent peace started spreading around town. As Christabel Bielenberg, the Anglo-German living in Dahlem, had already observed before the invasion of Poland: “With all normal channels of information successfully under control, rumor and hearsay took over and ran riot.”
This is exactly what happened on October 10. Quite how the rumor of imminent peace negotiations began is unclear: A misinformed telegram sent by a clerk at the Berlin central post office was the explanation of the SD, short for Sicherheitsdienst, the fearsome Nazi security service. Ruth Andreas-Friedrich: “A rumor is running through town this morning, like wildfire: the English government has fallen; a ten days’ truce is proposed…. All Berlin is on the telephone. ‘Had you heard…. Is it really true?’ ”
People stopped working in offices. Students at the Friedrich Wilhelm University were celebrating. There was a rush on government bonds at the stock exchange. Christabel Bielenberg went shopping at her local market, passing the church of Martin Niemöller, who had been arrested in 1938 for resisting Nazi persecution of Jewish converts to Christianity. Groups of people gathering around stores and street corners discussed the sensational news. The French had given up all resistance. The abdicated King Edward VIII, who held rather warm feelings toward the Führer, was about to reoccupy the British throne. Hands were stretched to Christabel in congratulation. Frau Schmitz, who ruled the food market behind her vegetable stall, “all overcoat and apron, a bulging monument to the peculiar ribald stoicism which characterizes the true Berliner,” knew exactly what was up: The gentlemen at the top had changed their minds, they were coming to an agreement! A plane all the way from Britain was about to land that afternoon at Tempelhof airfield. Extra rations of tomatoes, bread, and cabbage were slipped into the shopping bags of grateful customers. Rationing would soon be history anyway.
Far Outliers 