Munich

  A finger was raised. ‘One moment.’ Hitler leaned back in his seat and summoned a white-jacketed SS adjutant who stepped smartly to his side. Hartmann slowly straightened. He was aware of all eyes on him. Mussolini, Göring, Himmler – all seemed faintly amused by his predicament. Only Kordt looked rigid with horror. The adjutant began moving around the table towards him. After what seemed to him a long time but in reality must have been only a matter of seconds the adjutant reached Hartmann and presented him with his watch. As Hartmann left the room he heard the familiar voice rasping behind him. ‘I never forget a personal obligation. For Germany I am prepared to be dishonest a thousand times; for myself – never.’

  9

  Legat had been sent on ahead in the first car by Wilson to make sure the Prime Minister’s dinner arrangements were all in hand. He had spoken to the manager who had assured him a private room had been made ready on the ground floor. Now he waited by the entrance of the Regina Palast for the return of the rest of the British delegation. He felt he had made the most appalling fool of himself. Wilson had been perfectly civil about it but that was almost the worst thing. He could imagine ‘words being had’ when they returned to London: a brief conversation between Cleverly and Cadogan, a discreet summons to the Principal Private Secretary’s office, a posting to somewhere less high-pressure, a legation perhaps. And yet stubbornly he remained certain his duty was clear. Chamberlain should be made aware of the existence of the memorandum before the agreement was signed.

  The convoy of Mercedes limousines roared into Maximiliansplatz to even louder cheers from the crowd opposite. If anything, the numbers and the excitement seemed to be growing in anticipation of the announcement of a deal. As the Prime Minister, accompanied by Dunglass, entered through the revolving door, the hotel guests, many in evening dress, stood and applauded him across the lobby while the string quartet played ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’. Chamberlain nodded to left and right and smiled, but the moment he reached the sanctuary of the dining room he flopped down into the large gilt chair at the head of the central table and asked in a hoarse voice for a whisky and soda.

  Legat set down the red box and went over to the tray of bottles arranged on one of the side tables. The walls were mirrored panes, Versailles-style, with electric candles in sconces. As he squirted the soda into the tumbler he was able to keep an eye on Chamberlain in his seat beneath the chandelier. The Prime Minister’s chin slowly tilted forwards on to his chest.

  Dunglass put his finger to his lips and the others came in quietly – Wilson, Strang, Ashton-Gwatkin, Henderson, Kirkpatrick. Only Malkin had not returned to the hotel: he had stayed behind to oversee the final drafting. They tiptoed around the Prime Minister, speaking in whispers. The Scotland Yard detective closed the door and stationed himself outside. Wilson came over to Legat. He nodded towards Chamberlain and said quietly, ‘He’s in his seventieth year, been up for fifteen hours, flown six hundred miles and endured two negotiating sessions with Adolf Hitler. I think he’s entitled to feel tired, don’t you?’ He sounded protective. He took the whisky and soda and placed it gently in front of the Prime Minister. Chamberlain opened his eyes and peered around him in surprise, then sat up straight in his chair.

  ‘Thank you, Horace.’ He reached for the glass. ‘Well, that was pretty good hell, I must say.’

  ‘Still, it’s done, and I don’t think anyone could have handled it better.’

  Henderson said, ‘Oceans of ink will flow in criticism of your actions, Prime Minister. But millions of mothers will be blessing your name tonight for having saved their sons from the horror of war.’

  Dunglass said quietly, ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ The Prime Minister finished his whisky and soda and held out his glass for a refill. He was visibly reviving, like a drooping flower given fresh water. Colour infused his gaunt grey cheeks. Legat fixed him a fresh drink, then stepped out of the room to see what had become of their food. A few guests loitered outside. They tried to peer round him to get a glimpse of Chamberlain. Approaching across the lobby was a line of waiters bearing silver-covered dishes like trophies above their heads.

  Dinner was chanterelle soup followed by veal and noodles. At first the conversation was constrained by the presence of the waiters until Wilson asked Legat to tell them to leave. But as soon as the door had closed, and the Prime Minister had started to ask if there was any news from London, Kirkpatrick pointed at the ceiling. ‘Excuse me, sir, before you go on, I think it would be wise to assume every word we utter is being overheard.’

  ‘I don’t care if it is. I’m not going to say anything behind Hitler’s back I haven’t said to his face.’ He laid down his knife and fork. ‘Has anyone spoken to Edward or Cadogan?’

  Henderson said, ‘I spoke to the Foreign Secretary. He was most encouraged by the news.’

  Wilson said, ‘What we require, Prime Minister, if I may say so, is a point-by-point list of all the concessions you have succeeded in wringing out of the Germans, compared with what they were demanding before we came to Munich. That will be very useful for dealing with any criticism when we get back to London.’

  Strang said, with a trace of scepticism, ‘So there have been concessions?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, and they are not negligible. A phased occupation by October the tenth rather than invasion on the first. An orderly evacuation of the Czech minority under international supervision. A mechanism for settling any disputes that may arise.’

  ‘I wonder if the Czechs will see it like that.’

  ‘The Czechs,’ murmured Chamberlain. He had lit a cigar and pushed back his chair. ‘We have rather forgotten about the Czechs.’ He turned to Legat. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Still in their room, Prime Minister, as far as I know.’

  ‘You see – now why does Hitler have to treat them like that? It’s so impolite. It’s so unnecessary, as much as anything else.’

  Henderson said, ‘You have prevented him from bombing them, Prime Minister, which is what he most wanted to do. Therefore, all he can do now is inflict petty humiliations upon them. They should be grateful they are not confined to an air-raid shelter.’

  ‘But suppose, after the way they’ve been treated, they reject the agreement? Then we shall all be in the most frightful mess.’

  A brief silence fell over the room.

  Wilson said grimly, ‘Leave the Czechs to me. I shall explain the realities of the situation. Meanwhile, you should go and rest before the signing ceremony: I expect there will be photographers. Hugh, will you go and fetch the Czechs?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Horace.’

  Legat put down his napkin. His meal was entirely untouched.

  Hartmann closed the door of the banqueting hall and stopped to fasten his watch. It was twenty minutes to ten. From the office along the corridor came the faint sound of typing; a telephone rang.

  Again he took the service stairs, descending all the way to the basement. He turned right along the passage, past the noisy kitchens and through the smoky, steamy cafeteria filled as usual with soldiers and drivers. He went past the guardroom and out into the courtyard. He lit a cigarette. The cars were mostly unattended, parked bumper to bumper; the keys were in the ignitions. It crossed his mind to borrow one but he decided against it: better to take his chances on foot. The clouds were low, holding in the heat of the day. The sky was feverish with the reflected light from the spotlights trained on the swastikas in Königsplatz. He could hear the noise of the crowd.

  He set off towards the street. He had an uneasy sense that he was being watched or followed. But when he looked back all he could see were the gleaming rows of black limousines and the massive shape of the Führerbau looming above them. The lights were burning in the tall windows. He could clearly make out the banqueting hall because of the figures of the waiters passing back and forth, where no doubt Hitler was continuing to expatiate on the degeneracy of the democracies.

  Legat had braced himself for an
argument with the Gestapo men guarding the Czech delegation. But when he explained, in his stiff German, that the British Prime Minister wished to brief the representatives of the Czech Government on the progress of the talks, he was told that this was permissible, providing the gentlemen did not attempt to leave the hotel.

  He knocked on the door. It was opened by Masarík, the Foreign Ministry official from Prague. He was in his shirt sleeves. So too was the older man, Mastny, the Czech Minister in Berlin. The room was full of cigarette smoke even though the window had been thrown wide open. On the bed was a chess set: a game was in progress. Mastny was sitting on the edge of the mattress, one leg folded across the other, his chin resting in the palm of his hand, studying the position of the pieces. On the desk were the remains of a meal. Masarík saw Legat glance at it. ‘Oh yes,’ he said scathingly, ‘you may inform the Red Cross that the prisoners have been fed.’

  ‘Sir Horace Wilson would like to talk to you.’

  ‘Only Wilson? What about the Prime Minister?’

  ‘He is busy, I’m afraid.’

  Masarík said something to Mastny in Czech. Mastny shrugged and made a brief reply. They started putting on their jackets. Mastny said, ‘It will be exercise, at least. We have been held in here for nearly five hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the whole situation. The Prime Minister has been doing everything he can.’

  He led them out into the corridor. The Gestapo men followed close behind. He decided to conduct them round to the rear of the hotel and down the back stairs: he didn’t want them accidentally running into the Prime Minister. It was shabbier at the back than the front. The Czechs, alert for any fresh slight, noticed immediately. Masarík laughed. ‘They are making us use the servants’ entrance, Vojtek!’ Legat winced. He was glad he had his back to them. The whole business was becoming increasingly embarrassing. The logic of the British position was in theory impeccable. But it was one thing to adjust lines on a map in Downing Street, another to come to Germany and do it face to face. He thought of the memorandum lying downstairs in the Prime Minister’s red box: The incorporation of Austria and Czechoslovakia within Germany would provide, from the politico-military point of view, a substantial advantage, because it would mean shorter and better frontiers, the freeing of forces for other purposes …

  The private dining room was empty apart from Wilson and Ashton-Gwatkin and a couple of waiters clearing away the dirty plates. Wilson was smoking a cigarette – a thing Legat had never seen him do before. When Ashton-Gwatkin introduced him to the Czechs he transferred the cigarette to his left hand and showered ash on to the carpet. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’ The waiters left. Ashton-Gwatkin handed him a small rolled-up map. Wilson brushed a few fragments of food from the tablecloth and spread it out. Legat stood behind him.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, this is the best we were able to do for you.’

  The territories that were to be transferred to Germany were marked in red. The eastern half of the country was mostly unscathed; in the western half, however, three large chunks along the border around the cities of Eger, Aussig and Troppau had been excised, like bites from a piece of meat. An area to the south, adjacent to what had once been Austria, was shaded a lighter pink: its fate, Wilson explained, was to be settled by plebiscite.

  At first the Czechs seemed too stunned to speak. Then Masarík burst out: ‘You have given the Germans everything they asked for!’

  ‘We have only agreed to the transfer of those areas where a majority of the population is German.’

  ‘But with them go all our border fortifications – it renders our country indefensible.’

  ‘I’m afraid you shouldn’t have built your fortifications in areas which were bound to be disputed once Germany was back on her feet.’

  Wilson lit another cigarette. Legat noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. It was a brutal business, even for him.

  Mastny pointed to the map. ‘Here, at the narrowest point, Czechoslovakia will only be forty-five miles across. The Germans will be able to cut our country in half within a day.’

  ‘I am not responsible for the realities of geography, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I understand that. However, the government of France assured us that after any agreement our borders would still be defensible – that geographic, economic and political realities, as well as race, would be taken into consideration.’

  Wilson spread his hands. ‘What can I say? Hitler takes the view that this has been the original sin with Czechoslovakia from the start – that yours is an economic and political unit and not a nation. Race for him is the sine qua non. He is unyielding on the point.’

  ‘I am sure he would yield if the British and French stood firm.’

  Wilson smiled and shook his head. ‘You were not in the room, Mr Mastny. Believe me, he hates the fact that he’s even having to negotiate on this issue at all.’

  ‘It is not a negotiation. It is a capitulation.’

  ‘I disagree. This is the best deal we’re going to get. Ninety per cent of your country will remain intact and you will not be invaded. Now I suggest you talk to your government in Prague and advise them to accept it.’

  Masarík said, ‘And if we refuse?’

  Wilson sighed. He turned to Ashton-Gwatkin. ‘Why don’t you spell it out, Frank? I don’t seem to be getting through.’

  ‘If you refuse,’ said Ashton-Gwatkin slowly, ‘then you will have to settle your affairs with the Germans absolutely on your own. That is the reality. Perhaps the French may tell you this more gently but you can take it from us that they share our views. They are disinterested.’

  The Czechs looked at one another. They seemed to have run out of things to say. Finally, Mastny gestured to the map. ‘May we take this?’

  Wilson said, ‘Of course.’ He carefully rolled it up and handed it over. ‘Hugh, will you show our friends back to their room, and ask if they might be allowed to use the telephone?’

  Legat picked up the Prime Minister’s red box and opened the door. In the corridor the two Gestapo men were waiting. He stood aside to let the Czechs pass. Wilson called after them, ‘I shall make sure the Prime Minister sees you personally to explain everything once the agreement is signed.’

  Legat barely heard him. Across the lobby, beyond the potted palms, standing by the reception desk and talking to the concierge, was the unmistakable tall figure of Paul Hartmann.

  It took Legat a few seconds to recover his equilibrium. He said to the senior of the Gestapo men, ‘It is imperative that Herr Masarík and Dr Mastny are allowed to speak to their government in Prague as soon as possible. I trust I can rely on you to see that this is done.’ Without waiting for a reply he set off across the foyer towards Hartmann. Hartmann saw him coming. But instead of indicating some discreet corner where they might talk, as Legat had expected him to do, he advanced towards him.

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Chamberlain?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. No, not yet.’

  ‘Then I must do it immediately. He is on the third floor, yes?’ He moved towards the stairs.

  ‘Paul, for God’s sake, don’t be stupid!’ Legat hurried after him. At the bottom of the staircase he caught his arm. He was smaller than Hartmann, and the German was determined, but at that instant his desperation made him the stronger, and he stopped him. ‘Wait a minute. There’s no point in being a bloody fool.’ He spoke quietly. He was aware of people looking at them. ‘We need to talk about this.’

  Hartmann turned to address him. ‘I will not have it on my conscience that I did nothing.’

  ‘I understand entirely. I feel the same way. I’ve already tried to raise it with him once and I promise you I’ll try again.’

  ‘Then let us do it together now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Legat hesitated.

  Hartmann said, ‘You see? You have no answer!’ He brought h
is face very close to Legat’s. ‘Or are you worried it will damage your career?’

  He began to climb the stairs. After a moment, Legat followed him. The jibe had stung. Why? Because it had an element of truth? He tried to work out where everyone was. Wilson and Ashton-Gwatkin were still in the dining room, although they would no doubt be leaving at any minute. Malkin was at the conference. The others were probably in their rooms, or in the office trying to talk to London. The Prime Minister was supposed to be resting. It might just be possible.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  Hartmann’s face broke into the familiar wide smile. At Oxford someone once said you could warm your hands at it. ‘You are a good man, Hugh.’

  They climbed the stairs to the third floor. Halfway along the corridor the Scotland Yard detective was in his usual position, stationed outside the Prime Minister’s suite. Legat was regretting his decision already. He said, ‘I warn you – he is old and obstinate and exhausted, and pretty close to the end of his tether. If he does agree to see you, don’t for God’s sake give him a moral lecture. Just give him the facts. Wait here.’

  He nodded to the policeman and knocked on the door. In his anxiety he realised he was twisting his hands together. He thrust them into his pockets. The door was opened by the Prime Minister’s doctor, Sir Joseph Horner of University College Hospital. He was holding a black rubber bulb attached to a rubber tube with a pressure gauge. Behind him, Legat could see Chamberlain, without his jacket, his right shirt sleeve rolled above his elbow.

  Legat said, ‘I’m very sorry, Prime Minister. I can come back later.’

  ‘No, come in. I was just having my blood pressure checked. We’ve finished, haven’t we?’

  ‘Indeed, Prime Minister.’

  Horner began packing his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer into his Gladstone bag. Legat had never seen Chamberlain without his jacket before. His arm was surprisingly muscular. He rolled down his sleeve and fastened his cuff. ‘So, Hugh?’

  Legat placed the red box on the desk and unlocked it. He waited until Chamberlain had put his jacket back on and Horner had left the room with a grave ‘Goodnight, Prime Minister.’