Winter, page 61
‘To Rastenburg in East Prussia? No, that’s out of the question. Everything is done from the Berghof at this time of year. The Führer is spending more and more time there these days. The generals say the Führer won’t go back east until the summer offensive begins.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep calling that bastard the Führer. He’s not my Führer.’
Peter Winter didn’t argue, but it was difficult to get out of such ingrained habits. ‘That’s why this is such a good time for the army to do it. He’ll be at the Berghof until about July, and the security there is not so rigorous.’
‘I see,’ said Samson sardonically, without looking up from his darning.
Winter looked down at the crippled fingers of his left hand. Handling the harness and shroud lines for his parachute drop had proved difficult, and this maimed hand was red and sore with the exertion of it. For years he’d been able to forget about the deformity, but now – under the critical gaze of Samson – he was self-conscious again. ‘It’s a young captain…. He’s demonstrating a new antitank weapon to Hitler….’ He got it right this time, ‘Hitler’, not ‘Führer’. ‘The bomb is concealed in one of the ammunition boxes that are part of the demonstration.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Samson in an offhand way.
‘The officer will lose his own life,’ persisted Peter. He looked at his companion in the hope that he’d show more interest and compassion.
Samson looked up from his darning, stared at Peter, and said, ‘You really believe all this shit, don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Do our people in London believe all this rubbish you keep telling me?’ And then, in answer to his own question, ‘I suppose they must do, or they wouldn’t have given me all the extra work of looking after you.’
Peter resented that. It was typical of Samson that everything was measured by his work and his inconvenience. ‘Why wouldn’t they believe it?’
‘The Yanks sent you, didn’t they? They’ll believe anything. If someone told those Yanks in London that Hitler was really a tame gorilla, they’d send a zoologist over here.’
‘The army are determined…’
‘The army! Don’t tell me about the bloody army. Those spineless bastards didn’t discover that there was anything wrong with Hitler until the Red Army started showing them how to fight battles, and the RAF started bombing their precious German towns. Now they’ve decided that they want to get rid of him. Typically German, that: fair-weather friends, the Germans.’
‘They’ve tried before,’ said Peter. He knew that a lot of it was just Samson letting off steam, but it hurt just the same.
‘And how they’ve tried before! I’ve heard so many stories about the army’s attempts to assassinate Hitler that I can’t keep account of them.’
‘His security is so tight nowadays.’
‘So why weren’t they trying to kill the bastard back in 1940, when security wasn’t so tight? Too busy marching into Poland, Norway, France, Belgium and Holland, that’s why.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘No “perhaps” about it. These bloody aristocrat army officers are not going to kill Hitler. They haven’t got the guts. If the generals were going to kill Hitler, they would have done it by now. My God, they’ve been discussing it long enough. Would you like to know when I first heard those stories?’
Peter, who didn’t want to hear how long ago that was, said, ‘It’s not only the army. A lot of Germans are making efforts to get an armistice.’
‘An “armistice” is the right word,’ said Samson. ‘A suspension of hostilities. That’s what they want – a breathing space before going back to war again. I’ve got no time for any of them: generals, landed gentry, churchmen, intellectuals, liberals and all that crowd. I wouldn’t listen to any of them. A kick up the ass is what they need.’
‘Don’t you want the war to end?’
‘Yes, I want the war to end. But I want it to end at the right time, at the right place, and with the right people ending it. We’ve stated our war policy – unconditional surrender. We don’t want any of this damned armistice nonsense. We had an armistice in 1918, and look what happened. It only needed a few years of reorganization and rearmament and you bloody Germans were on the march again. No, no, no. Let’s not make the same mistake again. The hell with this clique of well-born officers, and the rest of them. Sod them! We don’t need any help in killing Hitler. We’ll do it in our own way and in our own good time.’
‘Is that what most of your countrymen feel?’
‘My countrymen? Yes, it is. And if you think we’re a bit lacking of the Old World courtesies, you should talk to the Poles and the Czechs and the rest of the poor devils you’ve walked over.’
‘I didn’t realize how strongly you feel. Under the circumstances I must thank you again for everything you’ve done for me.’
‘I did what I had to do.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They’re not going to kill Hitler. They’ll have some wonderful excuses, of course – they always do. If they spent as much time on their assassination plots as they do on their excuses, Hitler would have been eaten by the maggots long ago.’
‘We’ll see.’
Seeing that his outburst had failed to anger Winter, Samson was a fraction more conciliatory. ‘You see, these staff officers you think so much of – they don’t want to make Germany into any sort of democracy. I don’t have to tell you that; you remember what most army officers thought about the Weimar government.’
‘They don’t like Hitler,’ said Winter.
‘No, he’s the wrong rank for them. They don’t hate Hitler because he invaded neutral countries or because of what he’s doing to the Jews. They hate him because he’s a rough-spoken Austrian country yokel who doesn’t respect their noble ancestry and admire their mastery of the art of war.’
‘That’s silly talk.’
‘The German generals don’t want to end the war: they want help to fight it. You told me yourself that they propose to go on fighting the Russians as a “bulwark to communism” while making peace with the Western powers.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what does that mean, except us helping them fight the Reds?’
‘I suppose you’re right, but we can’t let the Russians keep coming. They will have to be held back. A lot of people in America agree.’
‘Forget it. The British public wouldn’t stand for it; they think Joe Stalin is their saviour. And the government would never try it on. No matter what sort of havoc the Red Army are creating for you, there’s not a chance in hell of a separate peace without the Russians. Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin spelled out their unconditional-surrender message long ago. If they didn’t modify that when they were losing, why the hell would they do so now, when they’re winning?’
It was not encouraging to listen to this man, thought Winter. If there were many others like him, Winter’s mission was doomed to failure right from the start. And he had the feeling that there were a lot of others like him.
‘Love him? I detest him!’
In another part of the city a Mercedes 320 convertible, one of the smaller types of staff car used by the army, went slowly along Unter den Linden. The lime-tree blooms smelled strong at this time of evening. There was a lot of traffic tonight. People were coming out of the Opera and flooding across Unter den Linden, oblivious of the traffic, their heads full of music. It was Mozart tonight. Not The Magic Flute, of course – that was banned because of the Masonic references – and not The Marriage of Figaro or Così fan tutti, because the libretto had been written by da Ponte, a baptized Jew. Tonight it was Die Entführung. Berlin audiences had always liked that, and it was written in a language they could understand.
General Horner, seated in the back of the slowly moving car, looked at the buildings as the car went along. He could never get used to the terrible damage that the winter of air attacks had wrought. So much of the city had been destroyed, whole districts had gone, so many killed and injured, but even worse was the loss of confidence that these sustained air attacks had inflicted. Berliners being Berliners, they had met their hardships with smiles and jokes. But the jokes were different from the old jokes. Scratch a smiling Berliner and you’ll find a cynic underneath, and Berlin jokes were becoming bitter. And the jokes were not just jokes about Hermann Göring and the Luftwaffe’s defence system; they were farther-ranging than that, and they were about defeat. ‘Jewish jokes’, some people called them, and perhaps they were right.
There were more people on the street in the evenings now that winter had passed. Night bombing was done by the British, and Berliners realized that the RAF’s heavy bombers could get as far as this only under cover of the long winter nights. Now it was possible to get a proper night’s sleep, except when sometimes light aircraft were sent over to drop a few bombs and sound the alarms just for the nuisance of it. Well, it was good tactics, he supposed. It was worth losing a small aircraft in exchange for having the whole city’s workforce bleary-eyed next morning. And, as everyone knew, the British didn’t lose even their light aircraft. These damned RAF Mosquitoes flew too high for the Luftwaffe’s night fighters to reach them.
As for the Americans, they were crossing the Reich to bomb Poland in broad daylight! The implication was frightening: the Allies were getting virtual control of the air.
Even Unter den Linden had not escaped the bombs. Kranzler Corner had been demolished, he noticed. He’d not sit there again, eating cream cakes and watching the girls strolling past, as he’d so often done with Pauli Winter when they were young cadets. In those days wars were fought on battlefronts: the enemy didn’t come and destroy a man’s home while he was hundreds of miles away fighting for his country. The effect of the bombing upon soldiers serving on the Russian Front was only too evident from the extracts and samples that the field post-office censors sent back for analysis. Every way he looked, reason said the war must end. And if there was only one way to end it, then so it be, oath to the Führer or no oath.
‘Hurry, driver! I told you it was urgent.’
‘Ja, Herr General.’
After they were past Pariser Platz the traffic thinned a bit, and they roared through the dark Tiergarten, where the shielded headlights picked out a few couples strolling arm in arm, round past the Eden Hotel and the scaffolding where they were repairing the bomb damage to the zoo. The Zoo Palast cinema was emptying, and the Ku-Damm was filled with traffic; the streetcars slowed everything even more. But the evening was not yet over, and more people were arriving here in the entertainment district. The dark-green Mercedes halted behind a streetcar and waited while the alighting passengers walked to the kerb before resuming the journey. Some of the streetcar passengers were dressed up: it had become difficult to get motor fuel for anything but important official journeys nowadays.
His driver knew the way. He turned off at Hubertus Allee and went around the circle at Bismarckplatz and to the expensive little apartment block where Pauli Winter now lived. The driver jumped out and ran round to hold the door open. Damn, it was cold, thought Alex Horner as he got out of the car. He should have worn his overcoat.
General Horner went and rang the bell. The janitor let him in, bowing in deference to the general in his uniform with the breeches and polished high boots, and the Knight’s Cross dangling from his collar. The janitor opened the grille of the lift. ‘Good evening, Herr General.’ Alex nodded and pressed the button; there was a grinding noise and a lurch before the tiny lift went up to Pauli’s apartment on the fifth floor.
Pauli opened the door. ‘Alex! Hello!’
‘Are you alone?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Pauli. ‘Come in. Inge’s gone to the cinema.’
‘I can’t stay, but I couldn’t tell you on the phone.’ Horner put his peaked cap on the hall stand before going into the drawing room.
‘A drink?’
‘No. Pauli – there has been another attempt on the Führer’s life. This afternoon at four o’clock. At the Berghof.’
‘It failed?’
‘Yes, it failed.’
‘I’ve heard nothing so far,’ said Pauli. He looked at his friend quizzically. Was that all? Had he dashed across Berlin to tell him that another of the army’s attempts on the Führer’s life had ended in failure.
‘I will have that drink,’ said Alex. ‘Brandy, if you have it.’
‘Sit down, Alex.’ Pauli poured a glass and opened an Apollinaris water for himself. Ever since the SS had acquired the mineral-water company, Fritz Esser had arranged that everyone on his staff got crates and crates of the stuff.
‘It’s rather complicated, Pauli. It was a demonstration for the Führer – an antitank rocket weapon, an elaborate version of the Panzerfaust…. You know how he likes to be shown these things so that he can lecture all present and display his knowledge.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Pauli. He watched Horner drink his brandy-and-soda in two or three gulps and put the empty glass down. Pauli lit a cigarette. For a moment the two men stood facing each other and not speaking. It had become a strange relationship. Although the deep and long-lasting friendship provided a fundamentally sound basis of trust, there was an element of bluff and double bluff, too. General Alex Horner was single-minded and at ease. He was loyally serving the army, and more specially the group of plotters to which he reported. If Himmler wanted to monitor the plot through Pauli Winter, that was all right, for Alex was kept at arm’s length from the plotters, just in case his old friendship proved not enough protection. And if Himmler felt he was going to step in and eliminate the army’s men after the deed was done, then he might find himself out-manoeuvred.
Pauli Winter’s loyalties were less easily defined. He also revered the army, and his training at Lichterfelde bound him to the Prussian Officer Corps in the same way that it bound Horner. But Pauli Winter had other allegiances, too: in the postwar years the Nazi regime had provided him with renewed self-respect, at a time when he needed help most. He’d become one of the party’s elite, part of the state within a state. The apparatus that the SS-Reichsführer had brought under his direct control now included the black-uniformed Allgemeine SS, the field-grey-uniformed Waffen-SS, the concentration and extermination camps, the SD intelligence organization, the Ministry of the Interior, the Gestapo and various police organizations that came under Himmler in his role of minister. Added to this were commercial companies that made everything from cheap furniture to uniforms and firearms.
Himmler was now more powerful than any army general could ever have hoped to become, and Pauli admired the quiet, modest little Heini in his pince-nez and the uniform that he so liked to wear. If Himmler wanted his men to do nothing while the army tried to assassinate the Führer, then Pauli would do exactly that. He had come to see the logic of it. Himmler had already taken over de facto control of the Third Reich; it was just a matter of time before he took over entirely. And if the SS-Reichsführer then negotiated peace with the Western powers, doubtless he would do it with the same skill he’d shown in climbing to his present position.
So Pauli Winter was able to treat Alex Horner’s determination to kill the head of state with equanimity. And yet he would not rejoice at Hitler’s death. He’d be saddened, as he’d been saddened at the necessary death of old Graf before a firing squad in the prison in Munich.
General Horner had declined the invitation to sit down. He moved about the room, looking at pictures and books without actually seeing them, and moving his lips without speaking. Now he turned, fists pushed into the front pockets of his breeches and said, ‘The weapons were displayed – no firing, of course, just a display of the prototypes – and the bomb’s time fuse was set. The demonstration was in the SS barracks yard behind the Platterhof. Then, just as the demonstration was about to begin, the Führer was called back inside the barracks building to take an important phone call from the Chancellery. You can’t change the fuse once it’s started.’
‘It went off?’
‘Just half a kilo or so of explosive, but the officer was badly hurt.’
‘He’s not dead?’
‘No he’s “being questioned”, Pauli.’
‘I can do nothing for him, Alex. I really can’t. I have authority to investigate plans for attempts against the Führer’s life, but this is something quite different. Questioning your man will be done under the orders of the SS officer in charge of security there. Even the Gestapo couldn’t get access to such a prisoner until the officer there is satisfied that the immediate danger is past and no other bombs are planted in the vicinity.’
‘I didn’t come to ask you to interfere at the Berghof, Pauli. But the trouble is that this officer has had contact with other people here in Berlin.’
‘You’d better get them to some area where the army have complete control: France might be best.’
‘One of the people was your brother.’
‘My brother? Peter? How?’
‘Peter is in Berlin. He was sent to make contact on behalf of the Western powers.’
‘Peter?’ It was bewildering.
‘And Peter met the officer concerned. If they make him talk he will describe Peter. It’s for you to decide, Pauli. You might want to get your brother out of danger.’
‘What is he doing here?’
‘He has a radio. He was to radio to London the news of the assassination and then remain as the liaison with the army here in Berlin. He would stay until the army radio established a direct link with London.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘In Wedding. There’s no phone.’
‘No phone – how absurd.’
‘It was more secure,’ explained Alex Horner.
‘And damned inconvenient. Didn’t they take into account that something like this would happen?’
‘No, they didn’t. They thought it would be successful.’
Pauli looked at him. ‘Yes, they always think it will be successful.’ He was tempted to add some sarcastic remark about the army’s similar optimism, and lack of success, against the Russians, but he knew that Alex Horner would not welcome it, and he was too fond of Alex to erode their precious friendship.
