Translate into German: ‘The administration of a joint stock association is, in the main, administration by hired servants …’
He stared out of the car. All the way into the centre of the town, along Lerchenauer Strasse and Schleissheimer Strasse, the citizens of Munich lined the streets so that the motorcade seemed to travel behind a bow-wave of applause for the Prime Minister, borne along a surging river of red, white and black flags. Occasionally, when they swerved to take a corner, Legat glimpsed him in the front car, leaning out slightly, his hat permanently in his hand, circling it in the direction of the crowds. Hundreds of arms rose in the fascist salute.
Ten minutes after leaving the airfield, the convoy swept down Brienner Strasse and into Maximiliansplatz. It rounded the square and drew to a halt outside the Regina Palast Hotel. A huge swastika dangled above the portico. Beneath it stood the British Ambassador, Henderson, and Ivone Kirkpatrick, Head of Chancery at the Berlin embassy. Ashton-Gwatkin let out his breath. ‘I think I could rather get used to that, couldn’t you?’
He heaved his ungainly body out of the Mercedes. Ribbentrop was already being driven away. In the public gardens opposite the hotel the crowd was eight or ten deep, held back by a line of Brownshirts. They cheered. The Prime Minister waved. More flashes from the cameras. Henderson ushered him inside. Legat, a red box in either hand, walked quickly after them.
The large, galleried lobby looked as if it hadn’t changed much since the Kaiser’s day – a stained-glass ceiling, a parquet floor covered in Persian rugs, a plethora of potted palms and armchairs. Several dozen mostly elderly guests were gawping at the sight of Chamberlain. He was standing close to the reception desk in a huddle with Henderson, Kirkpatrick and Wilson. Legat stopped and waited nearby, unsure whether or not to approach them. Suddenly all four turned to look at him. He had the sensation that he was under discussion. A moment later, Wilson was heading across the foyer towards him.
5
The Führerbau was barely a year old, the work of Hitler’s favourite architect, the late Professor Troost – so brand new that the white stone seemed to sparkle in the morning light. On either side of the twin porticoes hung giant flags; the German and the Italian flanked the southern entrance, the British and the French the northern. Above the doors were bronze eagles, wings outstretched, swastikas in their talons. Red carpets had been run out from both sets of doors, down the steps and across the pavement to the kerb. Only the northern entrance was in use. Here an eighteen-man honour guard stood with their rifles presented, alongside a drummer and a bugler. Hartmann passed them unchallenged, climbed the steps and went inside.
Its function was not entirely clear. It was not a government building, or a Party headquarters. Rather, it was a kind of monarch’s court, for the enlightenment and entertainment of the emperor’s guests. The interior was clad entirely in marble – a dull plum colour for the floors and the two grand staircases, greyish-white for the walls and pillars, although on the upper level the effect of the lighting was to make the stone glow golden. The foyer was crowded with dark suits and uniforms. An anticipatory buzz animated the air, as if a gala performance were about to begin. He spotted a few faces he recognised from the newspapers – a couple of Gauleiters, and Rudolf Hess, the Führer’s deputy, with his usual vaguely dreamy expression. He gave his name to the SS guards and was nodded through.
Straight ahead of him was the northern staircase. To his right, the lobby opened to a long, semicircular cloakroom, with two queues. He spotted a gentlemen’s lavatory and diverted his course towards that. He locked himself into a cubicle, opened his suitcase, took out the document, unbuttoned his shirt and thrust it under his vest. Then he did up his buttons, sat on the toilet and examined his hands. They were strange to him, cold and shaking slightly. He rubbed them together vigorously, breathed on them, then flushed the lavatory and went back out into the cloakroom. He laid his hat, coat and suitcase on the counter and checked them in.
He climbed the northern staircase to the first-floor gallery. He was starting to understand the layout of the building. Above the first gallery was a second; above that an opaque white glass ceiling flooded the whole space with natural light. It was perfectly symmetrical and logical – impressive, in fact. Waiters passed him carrying trays of food and bottles of beer. For want of a better idea he followed them. Through the nearest of three open doors he saw a large salon with a buffet lunch laid out on white tablecloths. Further along the wide corridor that ran the length of the front of the building was a gallery with armchairs and low tables. Beyond that an SS sentry stood guard in the corridor. He was turning away anyone who tried to approach. Hartmann guessed that must be the room where Hitler was waiting.
‘Hartmann!’
He swung round to see von Weizsäcker in the same room as the buffet lunch. He was standing beside the window, talking to Schmidt. He beckoned to Hartmann to join them. The room was panelled in dark wood with carved reliefs of various joyless rural activities. A few adjutants stood around holding whispered conversations. Each time someone came in they stiffened and then relaxed when they saw it wasn’t Hitler.
‘Schmidt was just telling me of your encounter on the Führer’s train with Sturmbannführer Sauer.’
‘Yes, he seems to have got it into his head that I’m an unreliable element.’
‘To Sauer we are all unreliable elements!’ The State Secretary laughed, then stopped abruptly. ‘Seriously, Hartmann, try not to antagonise him any further. He has the ear of the Minister and is capable of creating all sorts of trouble.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘But will you? I worry about your “best”. When this is over, I think perhaps it might be prudent to post you overseas somewhere. Washington, perhaps.’
Schmidt said, ‘How about Australia?’
Weizsäcker laughed again. ‘An excellent suggestion! Even Party Comrade Sauer can’t follow you across the Pacific Ocean!’
From beneath the window came the sound of cheering. The three men looked down into the street. An open Mercedes had just drawn up. Sitting very straight in the back was the British Prime Minister. Next to him was a slight and furtive-looking figure Hartmann didn’t recognise.
‘And so it begins,’ said Weizsäcker.
‘Who is that with Chamberlain?’
‘Sir Horace Wilson. The Führer can’t abide him either.’
More cars were pulling up behind the Prime Minister’s. Hartmann tried to look further along the street but his view was obscured. ‘Isn’t the Führer going to go outside to meet him?’
‘I doubt it. The only place the Führer wishes to see that particular old gentleman is in his grave.’
Chamberlain climbed out of the car, followed by Wilson. As he set foot on the red carpet there was a drum roll and a fanfare. He touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement, then passed out of sight. The Mercedes pulled away. Almost immediately, the crowd started cheering again. Another open-topped limousine drew up to take its place. In the back of this were Göring and the French Prime Minister, Daladier. Even at a distance one could sense Daladier’s unease. He was hunched down in the car, as though he could pretend he wasn’t really there. Göring in contrast looked delighted. Somehow, since leaving the railway station, he had managed to change into a new uniform. This one was snow white. It bulged and strained to contain the rolls of his fat. Beside him, Hartmann heard Weizsäcker suppress a snort of derision. ‘What on earth is he wearing now?’
Hartmann said, ‘Perhaps he wanted to make Monsieur Daladier feel at home by dressing as the Michelin Man?’
Weizsäcker wagged his finger at him. ‘Now that is exactly the sort of remark I was warning you against.’
‘State Secretary,’ said Schmidt. He nodded to the doorway where Chamberlain had appeared.
‘Your Excellency!’ Weizsäcker moved smoothly across the floor with both hands extended.
The British Prime Minister was a smaller figure than Hartmann had expected, round-shouldered,
with a tiny head, bushy grey eyebrows and moustache, and slightly protruding teeth. He was wearing a charcoal pinstriped suit with a watch chain across the waistcoat. The delegation filing in after him were equally unprepossessing. Hartmann examined each face as it appeared – this one lugubrious, that avuncular, this austere, another chinless. The hopelessness of his task briefly overwhelmed him. Of Legat there was no sign.
The room was starting to fill. Göring came in through the central door with Daladier and his entourage. Hartmann had read that the French Prime Minister, on account of his stocky muscular frame, was known in Paris as ‘the Bull of Vaucluse’. Now his great block of a head was down and his eyes flicked warily left and right as he was led towards the buffet table. Chamberlain went over to greet him in his schoolboy French: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Premier Ministre. J’espère que vous avez passé un bon voyage …’ Göring was filling a plate for himself with a great pile of cold meats, cheeses, pickles, vol-au-vents. While all eyes were on the prime ministers, Hartmann took his chance to slip away.
He walked along the gallery and peered over the stone balustrade to the staircase and the crowded foyer below. He descended to the ground floor, looked into the cloakroom, the lavatory, and went outside, past the drummer and the bugler, down the red carpet and on to the pavement. He even put his hands on his hips and surveyed the crowd. It was no use. Legat was nowhere. The spectators started to applaud again. He looked along the street to see a Mercedes approaching. In the back, their profiles as haughty as those of Roman emperors, were Mussolini and Ciano. A guard opened their door for them and they stepped gracefully on to the pavement, tugging down the jackets of their pale grey uniforms. A gust of wind fluttered the flags. The army musicians played their fanfare. The Italians strutted into the building. Two more cars with their uniformed entourage drew up behind.
He waited for perhaps half a minute and then followed them back inside. They were standing in the lobby being greeted by Ribbentrop, while behind them, descending the red marble staircase – almost shyly, as it seemed to Hartmann, bare-headed and alone – was Hitler. He was wearing a creased brown double-breasted Party jacket with a swastika armband, a pair of black trousers and scuffed black shoes. He stood on the landing halfway down the stairs, his hands clasped modestly in front of him, waiting for Mussolini to take notice of him. When the Führer’s presence was finally pointed out by Ribbentrop, the Duce threw up his hands in a show of delight and swiftly mounted the steps to grasp Hitler’s hand. The two dictators turned and began to walk up to the first floor, trailing their retinues.
Hartmann inserted himself at the back.
For the next few minutes he acted as interpreter, facilitating some stilted small talk about their recent experiences of flying between General Keitel and the British diplomat, Strang. All the while he was keeping an eye on the room and its entrances. He noticed many things in rapid sequence. The way Chamberlain and Daladier hastened over to greet the fascist leaders. The way whenever Mussolini moved, Hitler moved with him, as if he was nervous of being left on his own in such a large gathering of strangers. He watched Ribbentrop conferring with Ciano – two arrogant, handsome peacocks together – and behind Ribbentrop he saw Sturmbannführer Sauer, who immediately locked eyes on his. Keitel had finished speaking and was waiting for him to translate. He made an effort to remember what had just been said. ‘General Keitel was recalling the weather when he flew back to Berlin after your last meeting at Godesberg. It was evening and his plane had to make detours around dozens of lightning storms. He says it was an incomparable spectacle at a height of three thousand metres.’
‘It’s curious he should say that,’ replied Strang, ‘because tell him we also had a difficult experience …’
There was a stir of activity around one of the entrances. Hitler, whose boredom and unease had become increasingly evident, was leaving.
The instant the Führer exited the room, all the Germans moved quickly to follow him. Hartmann walked with Keitel. They went into the corridor and turned right. He was not sure what he was supposed to do. He was conscious of Sauer in the group just ahead of him with Ribbentrop. They passed the long gallery where various lounging SS officers jumped to their feet and saluted as Hitler went by. At the entrance to his office he halted. The effect was comic, like a pile-up of traffic. He wore a look of intense impatience.
‘We shall talk in here,’ he said to Ribbentrop in his harsh voice. ‘Leaders and one adviser only.’ His dull blue eyes swept around his entourage. Hartmann, who was standing quite close to him, felt himself briefly come under the heat of his scrutiny. The gaze moved on, stopped and then returned to him. ‘I need to borrow a watch. Lend me yours, please.’ He held out his hand.
Hartmann stared at him, momentarily paralysed.
Hitler turned to the others. ‘He thinks he won’t get it back!’
There was a roar of laughter.
‘Yes, my Führer.’ Hartmann’s fingers were clumsy as he unfastened the watch and handed it over. He was rewarded with a nod.
‘Good. Let us get this business started.’
He went into his office. Ribbentrop went after him. Schmidt turned in the doorway. ‘Hartmann, will you go and tell the others we are ready to begin?’
Hartmann walked back towards the reception room. He rubbed the pale skin on his left wrist where he had worn his watch night and day for the past eight years. It was odd to be without it. And now that man had it. He felt dangerously detached from what was happening, as if he were wandering through a dream. Beside the buffet table, Chamberlain was talking to Mussolini again. As he approached, Hartmann caught the words, ‘A good day’s fishing …’ Mussolini was nodding politely, bored.
Hartmann said, in English, ‘Excuse me for interrupting, Your Excellencies. The Führer would like to invite you to join him in his study to begin the talks. He suggests leaders and one adviser only.’
Mussolini looked around for Ciano, saw him and snapped his fingers. Ciano came to heel immediately. Chamberlain called to Wilson: ‘Horace, we’re going in.’
Daladier, watching from a short distance away, turned his melancholy eyes on Hartmann. ‘Nous commençons?’ He was standing with a group of French officials. Hartmann recognised the Ambassador, François-Poncet. Daladier glanced about him, frowned. ‘Où est Alexis?’ Nobody seemed to know. François-Poncet volunteered to go and find him. ‘Peut-être qu’il est en bas.’ He hurried out of the room. Daladier looked at Hartmann and shrugged. Occasionally one lost the head of one’s Foreign Ministry – what was one to do?
Chamberlain said, ‘I don’t think we should keep Herr Hitler waiting.’ He moved towards the door. After a brief hesitation the French and Italian delegations followed him. When he reached the corridor he stopped. ‘Which is the way?’ he said to Hartmann.
‘Please follow me, Your Excellency.’
He led them past the long gallery where the Germans were standing watching. How drab the British and the French looked in their office suits, crumpled after their long journeys, compared to the uniforms of the SS and the Italian fascists. How un-virile; how dowdy and outnumbered.
At the entrance to the Führer’s study Hartmann stood aside to let them enter: Chamberlain first, then Mussolini and Daladier, then Ciano and Wilson. The head of the French Foreign Ministry, Léger, was still missing. Hartmann hesitated before he went into the room. He had an impression of largeness, of dark wood and masculinity – a huge globe, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and a desk at one end; a heavy table in the centre; and at the opposite end, drawn up in a semicircle around a brick-and-stone fireplace, a group of wood-and-wicker armchairs and a sofa. A portrait of Bismarck hung above the chimney piece.
Already seated in the armchair furthest to the left was Hitler, with Schmidt beside him. He indicated with a wave that his guests could sit where they pleased. There was something offhand about the gesture, as if it was all the same to him. Chamberlain claimed the armchair closest to the Führer. Wilson sat to his right. The Italians t
ook the sofa which faced the fireplace. Ribbentrop and Daladier completed the group, leaving an empty chair for Léger.
As he bent to speak quietly to Ribbentrop, Hartmann noticed his watch lying on the low table in front of Hitler.
‘Forgive me, Herr Minister, but Monsieur Léger is not yet ready.’
Hitler, shifting in his chair with impatience, must have overheard him. He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Let’s start in any case. He can join us later.’
Daladier said, ‘I can’t possibly begin without him. Léger knows all the details. I know nothing.’
Chamberlain sighed and folded his arms. Schmidt translated his statement into German. Abruptly, Hitler leaned forwards and picked up Hartmann’s watch. He studied it ostentatiously for a few seconds. ‘Keitel!’ The general, waiting by the door, hastened to his side. Hitler whispered in his ear. Keitel nodded and left the room. The others stared at Hitler, unsure of what was happening.
Ribbentrop said to Hartmann, ‘Go and see if you can find him.’
Hartmann went out into the corridor just in time to see Léger hurrying into view. He was a small man in a black suit with a jet-black moustache and widow’s peak. His face was pink from the exertion of running. He looked like a figure made of icing on the top of a wedding cake.
‘Mille excuses, mille excuses …’
He darted into the Führer’s study.
Hartmann had a last glimpse of the four leaders and their advisers, together with Schmidt, seated as still as figures in a photograph, before the SS guard closed the door.