Cleverly said, ‘At least it gives you an ending for your speech.’
The Prime Minister tapped his forefingers on the table. Eventually he said to Legat, ‘You’d better come with me. We can amend the speech in the car.’
‘I can come if you prefer,’ said Cleverly.
‘No, you’d better wait here in case there are further developments in Berlin.’
Wilson said, ‘It’s nearly quarter-past. You need to go. The debate starts in fifteen minutes.’
Chamberlain pushed himself up from the table. As Legat followed him, he was conscious of a look of pure loathing from Cleverly.
In the entrance hall, Chamberlain stood under the brass lantern while Wilson helped him on with his overcoat. A dozen members of the Number 10 staff had gathered to see him off. He looked around him. ‘Is Annie—?’
‘She’s gone on ahead,’ said Wilson. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be in the gallery.’ He brushed a few specks from Chamberlain’s collar and gave him his hat. ‘I’ll be there, too.’ He fished the PM’s umbrella from the stand and pressed it into his hand. ‘Remember: you are prevailing, inch by inch.’
The Prime Minister nodded. The porter opened the door. The familiar brilliant white glare briefly silhouetted him and Legat thought how slight a figure he looked, even in his overcoat – rather like a blackbird himself. He doffed his hat, first right, then left, and stepped on to the pavement. There were a few cheers, a little applause. A woman shouted, ‘God bless you, Mr Chamberlain!’ It sounded as though there was hardly anyone present. But when Legat followed him out into the blinding light and his eyes adjusted he saw that Downing Street was actually filled from end to end with a silent, shuffling multitude so huge that a policeman mounted on a horse had been brought in to escort the car. The Prime Minister climbed into the Austin through the nearside door; his plainclothes detective got in beside the driver. Legat had to squeeze his way round through the crowd to the other side. It was hard to open the door. He slid into the seat beside the Prime Minister. The crush of bodies closed the door after him. Through the windscreen he could see the rear end of the police horse. It moved off slowly, clearing a path for them.
The Prime Minister murmured, ‘I have never seen anything like this in my life.’
Flashbulbs lit the interior. It took them almost a minute to reach the top of Downing Street and turn right into Whitehall. A huge crowd stretched ahead, eight or ten deep on the pavements and gathered around the Cenotaph, which rose from a field of freshly laid flowers. A pair of Chelsea Pensioners in their medals and scarlet uniforms, carrying a wreath of poppies between them, turned to stare at the Prime Minister’s car as it drove past.
Legat pulled out his fountain pen and flicked through to the last page of the speech. It was hard to write in the moving car. Signor Mussolini has informed Herr Hitler that while Italy will fulfil its obligations to Germany, it nevertheless requests that mobilisation be postponed for twenty-four hours. Herr Hitler has agreed.
He showed it to the Prime Minister who shook his head. ‘No, that doesn’t go far enough. I must pay some kind of tribute to Musso. We need to keep him on our side.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Write this down: “Whatever views Honourable Members may have had about Signor Mussolini in the past, I believe that everyone will welcome his gesture of being willing to work with us for peace in Europe.”’
As they entered Parliament Square the car was once again forced to slow to walking pace, then brought to a halt. Mounted police surrounded them. The grey sky, the sombre quiet of the crowd, the red wreaths, the clatter of the horses’ hooves – it was like a state funeral, thought Legat, or the two-minute silence on Armistice Day. Finally, the car broke free and they accelerated through the iron gates into New Palace Yard. He glimpsed a policeman saluting. Their tyres thumped over the cobbles. They passed under an arch into Speaker’s Court and pulled up beside a Gothic wooden door. The detective jumped out. A few seconds later Chamberlain was across the cobbles and climbing the stone staircase, Legat behind him.
They emerged on to a green-carpeted, wood-panelled corridor directly adjacent to the Commons Chamber. Six hundred MPs were already assembled, waiting for the session to begin. Through the closed doors came a continuous low rumble of conversation. In the outer office of the Prime Minister’s suite, the female secretaries stood to attention as the PM entered. Chamberlain marched past them into the conference room, handing his hat and umbrella to Miss Watson. He shrugged off his overcoat. Two men were waiting by the long table: his Parliamentary Private Secretary, Alec Dunglass – the heir to an earldom whose misfortune, or perhaps it was the key to his success, was to look as if he had just stepped out of a novel by P. G. Wodehouse – and the Chief Whip, Captain Margesson.
The Prime Minister said, ‘I’m so sorry to keep you all waiting. The crowds are quite unbelievable.’
Margesson said briskly, ‘If you’re ready, Prime Minister, it’s nearly a quarter to three. We should go in right away.’
‘Very well.’
They walked back out of the office and across the corridor towards the doors of the Chamber. The noise grew louder.
The Prime Minister adjusted his cuffs. ‘What is the mood of the House?’
‘Strong support for your action right across the Party – even Winston is subdued. You’ll see some contraption beside the Dispatch Box: you can ignore it. The BBC wanted to broadcast your statement but the Labour whips have refused. They say it gives the government an unfair advantage.’
Dunglass said, ‘I’ve put a little brandy in your water, Prime Minister. It’s good for the voice.’
‘Thank you, Alec.’ Chamberlain stopped and held out his hand. Legat gave him his copy of the speech. He weighed it in his hand and managed a smile. ‘I certainly have a lot to get through.’
Dunglass pulled the door open. Margesson went in first. He used his shoulders to clear a path through the MPs who were crowded around the Speaker’s chair. As the Prime Minister came into the full view of the Chamber the rumble of noise swelled to a deep masculine roar. Legat felt it as something almost visceral – the heat, the colour, the noise – like emerging into a football stadium. He turned right and made his way with Miss Watson to the bench reserved for government officials.
Behind him the Speaker’s voice cut through the din. ‘Order! Order! The House will come to order!’
The Prime Minister was heard in absolute silence. No Member rose to interrupt him as he recounted day by day, sometimes hour by hour, the narrative of the crisis. The only movement came from the House Messengers in their black frock coats and ceremonial chains, endlessly bringing in telegrams and pink telephone-slips recording the messages that were pouring into Westminster.
‘So I resolved to go to Germany myself to interview Herr Hitler and find out in personal conversation whether there was yet any hope of saving the peace …’
From his vantage point Legat could see Winston Churchill leaning forward on the Conservative front bench below the gangway, listening intently, accumulating telegram after telegram which he held bundled together with a red elastic band. In the gallery, the former Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, rested his arms on the wooden railing and gazed down at proceedings like a farmer at market wearing his Sunday best. Further along, the pale powdered imperial effigy of Queen Mary, the mother of the King, regarded Chamberlain without expression. Nearby sat Lord Halifax.
‘I knew very well that in taking such an unprecedented course I was laying myself open to criticism on the ground that I was detracting from the dignity of a British Prime Minister, and to disappointment, and perhaps even resentment, if I failed to bring back a satisfactory agreement. But I felt that in such a crisis, where the issues at stake were so vital for millions of human beings, such considerations could not be allowed to count …’
Legat checked the Prime Minister’s delivery against his copy of the speech, marking the few occasions when Chamberlain departed from the text. The PM’s manner was unhurried, forensic, quiet
ly theatrical – now with his thumbs tucked behind the lapels of his jacket, now putting on a pair of pince-nez to read from a document, now removing them to gaze briefly up at the skylight as if seeking inspiration. He described his two visits to Hitler as if he were a Victorian explorer at the Royal Geographical Society reporting on his expeditions to meet some savage warlord. ‘On 15th September I made my first flight to Munich. Thence I travelled by train to Herr Hitler’s mountain home at Berchtesgaden … On the 22nd I went back to Germany to Godesberg on the Rhine, where the Chancellor had appointed a meeting place as being more convenient for me than the remote Berchtesgaden. Once again I had a very warm welcome in the streets and villages through which I passed …’
The Prime Minister had been on his feet for more than an hour, and was just embarking on a description of the events of the last two days – ‘as a last effort to preserve peace I sent Sir Horace Wilson to Berlin’ – when Legat became aware of a disturbance in the Peers’ Gallery. Cadogan was standing at the entrance, accompanied by a messenger. He was waving his hand, trying to attract the attention of Lord Halifax. Eventually it was Baldwin who noticed him and who reached round behind the back of Queen Mary and tapped the Foreign Secretary on the shoulder. He pointed to Cadogan who beckoned urgently to Halifax to come and join him. Halifax rose stiffly, his useless arm dangling at his side, and with much bowing and apology to Her Majesty, made his way to the back of the gallery and disappeared.
‘Yesterday morning Sir Horace Wilson resumed his conversations with Herr Hitler, and finding his views apparently still unchanged, repeated to him in precise terms, on my instructions, that should the forces of France become actively involved in hostilities against Germany, the British Government would feel obliged to support them …’
Legat whispered to Miss Watson, ‘Would you mind just checking what the PM says against the text?’ Without waiting for a reply he handed her the speech.
The tension in the Chamber was tightening sentence by sentence as the Prime Minister’s narrative drew closer to the present. The MPs standing between the officials’ box were too rapt to take any notice of Legat as he twisted and squeezed his way between them. ‘Excuse me … Sorry …’
He reached the space at the back of the Speaker’s chair just as Cadogan and Halifax came through the door. Cadogan saw him and waved at him to come over. He said quietly, ‘We’ve just received a direct response from Hitler. We need to inform the PM before he finishes speaking.’ He pressed a note into Legat’s hand. ‘Give this to Alec Dunglass.’
It was a single sheet of paper, folded once, with Prime Minister – urgent written on the outside.
Legat went back into the Chamber. He could see Dunglass sitting on the second row of benches, immediately behind the Prime Minister’s place. There was no way he could reach him directly. He gave the note to the MP at the end of the bench. He was aware of hundreds of MPs opposite and behind watching him, fascinated by what was going on. He whispered to the MP, ‘Would you mind passing this along to Lord Dunglass?’
He followed its progress as it travelled from hand to hand like a lit fuse until it reached Dunglass, who opened it with his usual slightly goofy expression and read it. Immediately he leaned forward to murmur in the ear of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who put his hand over his shoulder and took the note.
The Prime Minister had just finished reading out his latest telegrams to Hitler and Mussolini.
‘In reply, I am told Signor Mussolini has asked Herr Hitler for extra time to re-examine the situation and endeavour to find a peaceful settlement. Herr Hitler has agreed to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours.’
For the first time since he started speaking there was a murmur of approval.
‘Whatever views Honourable Members may have had about Signor Mussolini in the past, I believe that everyone will welcome his gesture of being willing to work with us for peace in Europe.’
More noises of agreement. The Prime Minister paused and suddenly looked to the bench beside him where Sir John Simon was tugging at the bottom of his jacket. He frowned and bent down, took the note and read it. The two men held a whispered conversation. The Chamber was silent, watching. Finally, the Prime Minister straightened and placed the note on the Dispatch Box.
‘That is not all. I have something further to say to the House yet. I have now been informed by Herr Hitler that he invites me to meet him at Munich tomorrow morning. He has also invited Signor Mussolini and Monsieur Daladier. Signor Mussolini has accepted and I have no doubt Monsieur Daladier will also accept. I need not say what my answer will be.’
The silence lasted a split second longer. Then came a deafening eruption of relief. All around the Chamber, MPs – Labour and Liberals too – rose to their feet applauding and waving their order papers. Some Conservatives actually stood on their benches to cheer. Even Churchill eventually lumbered to his feet although he looked as sulky as a toddler. On and on it went, minute after minute, as the Prime Minister glanced around, nodding, smiling. He tried to speak but they would not let him. Eventually he managed to wave them back into their places.
‘We are all patriots, and there can be no Honourable Member of this House who did not feel his heart leap that the crisis has been once more postponed to give us an opportunity to try what reason and good will and discussion will do to settle a problem which is already within sight of settlement. Mr Speaker, I cannot say any more. I am sure that the House will be ready to release me now to go and see what I can make of this last effort. Perhaps they may think it will be well, in view of this new development, that this Debate shall stand adjourned for a few days, when perhaps we may meet in happier circumstances.’
There was further prolonged acclamation and it was only then, to his embarrassment, that Legat realised he had forgotten his professional neutrality and had been cheering with all the rest.
4
On the principle that the best hiding place is in plain sight, the core group of conspirators met at five o’clock that afternoon in Kordt’s office in the Prussian State building: Gisevius and von Schulenburg from the Interior Ministry, Dohnányi from Justice, Colonel Oster of the Abwehr, and Kordt and Hartmann from the Foreign Service.
Six men! Hartmann found it hard to restrain his contempt. Six men to bring down a dictatorship that controlled every aspect of life and society in a country that had swollen to eighty million? He felt naive and humiliated. The whole thing was a joke.
Kordt said, ‘I propose that if anyone asks us about this meeting, we should tell them it was purely informal, to discuss creating an inter-departmental planning group for the newly liberated Sudeten territories.’
Dohnányi nodded. ‘That has a certain horrible bureaucratic plausibility.’
‘Naturally, Beck cannot be seen anywhere near us. Nor can Heinz, for that matter.’
‘“The newly liberated Sudeten territories”,’ repeated Gisevius. ‘Listen to how that sounds. My God, he’s going to be more popular than ever.’
Schulenburg said, ‘And why not? First Austria, now the Sudetenland. The Führer has added ten million ethnic Germans to the Reich in less than seven months without needing to fire a shot. Goebbels will say he is our greatest statesman since Bismarck, and perhaps he is.’ He looked around the room. ‘Have you considered that, gentlemen? That we may be wrong?’
Nobody responded. Kordt was seated behind his desk. Oster was leaning against it. Gisevius, Schulenburg and Dohnányi occupied the three armchairs. Hartmann was sprawled full length on his back on the sofa, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His large feet dangled over the armrest. Eventually he said quietly, ‘So what happened to the Army, Colonel Oster?’
Oster shifted his backside slightly against the desk. ‘In the end, everything depended on Brauchitsch. Unfortunately, he was still making up his mind what to do when the Führer issued the order to postpone mobilisation for twenty-four hours.’
‘And if mobilisation hadn’t been postponed – would he hav
e acted then?’
‘Beck says that Halder told him he was definitely sympathetic—’
Hartmann interrupted him. ‘“Beck says … Halder told him … sympathetic …!”’ He swung his legs to the floor and sat up straight. ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but if you ask me, this is just castles in the air. If Brauchitsch had been serious about getting rid of Hitler, he would have gone ahead and done it.’
‘That’s too simplistic. It was always understood that the only circumstances in which the Army would take action would be if they were convinced there was going to be a war against France and Britain.’
‘Because they thought that Germany would lose?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So let us be clear about the logic of the Army’s position. They have no moral objection to Hitler’s regime; their opposition is entirely conditional on the country’s military prospects?’
‘Yes, of course. Is that so shocking? They are soldiers, not clergymen.’
‘Well, that is very nice for them, I’m sure! No need for conscience there! But you see what it means for the rest of us?’ He looked at each of the others in turn. ‘As far as the Army is concerned, as long as Hitler is winning, he is safe. Only when he starts to lose will they turn against him – by which time it will be too late.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ warned Kordt. ‘Hess’s office is just along the corridor.’
Oster was visibly controlling his temper. ‘I am as disappointed as you are, Hartmann. More so, I would imagine. Please don’t forget it has taken me months to get the Army even this far. All summer I’ve been sending messages to London, telling them that if only they would stand firm they could leave the rest to us. Unfortunately, I hadn’t reckoned on the cowardice of the British and the French.’
Kordt said, ‘They will pay a terrible price for it in the long run. And so will we.’
There was a silence. It still seemed unbelievable to Hartmann that Hitler had swerved away from war at the last minute. He had watched it happen: history made at a distance of five metres. The red-faced, trembling Attolico had stammered out his message loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, as if he were a herald in a play: ‘The Duce informs you that whatever you decide, Führer, Fascist Italy stands behind you. But the Duce is of the opinion that it would be wise to accept the British proposal, and begs you to refrain from mobilisation.’ As Schmidt translated the Italian into German, Hitler’s face had betrayed neither anger nor relief, his features as immobile as a bronze bust. ‘Tell the Duce that I accept his proposal.’ And with that he had returned to his office.