Munich

  Hartmann had been against it from the start. He had called it a waste of a good day, a trivial bourgeois diversion (‘Isn’t that what you people call it?’) to focus upon an individual rather than upon the social forces that had created him. But there was more to his reluctance than that, Legat had realised afterwards: Hartmann knew what she was like, the sort of recklessness of which she was capable. She had appealed to Legat to use his casting vote in her favour, and of course he had done so – partly because he was curious to see Hitler himself, but chiefly because he was half in love with her: a fact of which all three were aware. They treated it as a joke, himself included. He was so much less experienced and worldly than Hartmann, still a virgin at twenty-one.

  And so, after their picnic on the grass in Königsplatz, they had set off.

  It was the first week of July, just after midday, very hot. She was wearing one of Hartmann’s white shirts with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of shorts, and walking boots. Her limbs were brown from the sun. It was more than a mile away, through the centre of the city. The buildings shimmered like fantasies in the haze of heat. As they passed the southern end of the Englischer Garten, Hartmann had suggested they go swimming in the Eisbach instead. Legat had been tempted but Leyna would not be put off. On they went.

  The apartment was at the top of a hill, facing on to Prinzregentenplatz, a busy, drearily impressive half-cobbled square through which trams ran. By the time they reached it they were sweating and bad-tempered. Hartmann was hanging back in a sulk and Leyna had decided to goad him further by pretending to flirt with Legat. The building in which Hitler lived was a luxurious, turn-of-the-century block with a hint of a French chateau about its design. Outside it a gang of about a dozen Stormtroopers was loitering, closing off that portion of the pavement, obliging pedestrians to step into the road and walk around the Führer’s six-wheeled Mercedes which was drawn up waiting for him. Across the street, no more than twenty yards away, a small crowd of curious spectators had gathered. So, he was in residence, Legat remembered thinking – and not only that: it looked as though he was about to leave.

  He asked, ‘Which is his apartment?’

  ‘Second floor.’ She pointed. A balcony ran between two bays with French windows. It was solid, heavy masonry. ‘Sometimes he comes out to show himself to the crowd. Of course, this is the place where his niece was shot last year.’ As she delivered the last sentence she raised her voice slightly. A couple of people turned to look at her. ‘Well, they lived together, didn’t they? What do you think, Pauli? Geli Raubal – did she kill herself or was she bumped off because of the scandal?’ When Hartmann didn’t reply she said to Legat, ‘The poor kid was only twenty-three. Everyone knew her uncle was fucking her.’

  A middle-aged woman standing nearby turned and glared at her. ‘You should shut your filthy mouth.’

  Across the street, the Brownshirts were coming to attention, forming themselves into an honour guard between the door of the apartment building and the car. The crowd shuffled forwards. The door opened. Hitler appeared. He was wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit. (Later, Legat decided he must have been on his way to lunch.) Some of the onlookers cheered and clapped. Leyna cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled, ‘Niece-fucker!’

  Hitler glanced over at the small throng. He must have heard – the Stormtroopers certainly had: their heads had all swung in their direction – but just to make sure, she repeated it. ‘You fucked your niece, you murderer!’ His face was expressionless. As he climbed into his car a couple of the SA men broke ranks and started coming towards her. They had short truncheons. Hartmann grabbed Leyna’s arm and pulled her after him. The woman who had told her to shut her filthy mouth tried to block their path. Legat pushed her out of the way. A man – a big fellow, her husband presumably – swung a punch and caught Legat just below the eye. The three of them ran out of the square and down a leafy residential road.

  Hartmann and Leyna were in front. Legat could hear the boots of the Brownshirts thumping on the cobbles very close behind. His eye was stinging and already beginning to close. His lungs were searing as if they had been pumped full of liquid ice. He remembered feeling both terrified and entirely calm. When a side road appeared to the right, and Hartmann and Leyna ran straight past it, he swung down it, between big villas with front gardens, and presently he became aware that the Stormtroopers were no longer pursuing him. He was alone. He leaned on a small wooden gate to recover his breath, gasping and laughing. He felt almost ecstatically happy, as if he had taken a drug.

  Later, when he got back to their hostel, he found Leyna sitting in the courtyard with her back to the wall. Her face was turned to the sun. She opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet as soon as she saw him and hugged him. How was he? He was fine: better than fine, actually. Where was Paul? She didn’t know – once the fascists had given up the chase and they were safe he had shouted at her and she had shouted back and then he had walked off. She inspected his eye and insisted on taking him upstairs to his bedroom. While he lay on the bed she soaked a hand towel in the basin and folded it into a compress. She sat on the mattress beside him and held it to his eye. Her hip was pressed against him. He could feel the hardness of her muscle beneath her flesh. He had never felt more alive. He reached his hand up behind her head and laced her hair between his fingers and pulled her face down to his and kissed her. She resisted for a moment, then kissed him back and swung astride him, unbuttoning her shirt.

  Hartmann didn’t come back all that night. The next morning, Legat had left his share of the bill on the dresser and slipped away. Within an hour he was on the earliest train out of the city. And that had been the only great adventure in the carefully planned life of Hugh Alexander Legat, ex-Balliol College, Oxford, and Third Secretary in His Majesty’s Diplomatic Service, until this night.

  They motored on in silence along the narrow country roads for the best part of an hour. It was colder now. Legat kept his hands in his coat pockets. He wondered about where he was being taken, what he should say when he arrived. To this day he had no idea whether Hartmann knew about his act of betrayal. He had always assumed he must have done: why else would he never have got in touch in all the years since? He had also written to Leyna – two letters full of love and remorse and pompous moral lectures; in retrospect he was glad they had both been returned unopened.

  Finally, they turned off on to a long drive. The headlights picked out neatly trimmed grass verges and low iron railings. Ahead was the shape of a large house – a manor house, it would have been in England – with outbuildings. In a small round window beneath the eaves a solitary light was burning. They passed through an arched gateway and pulled up on a cobbled forecourt. Hartmann switched off the engine.

  ‘Wait here.’

  Legat watched him walk towards the door. The front of the house was covered by ivy. In the moonlight he could now see that the upper windows were barred. He had a sudden presentiment of horror. Hartmann must have rung a bell. A minute later, a light went on above the door. It was opened from the inside – a cautious crack at first, and then wider, so that Legat could see a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. Hartmann said something to her, gestured to the car. She leaned around him to look. There was a discussion. Hartmann raised his hands a couple of times, making some point or other. At last she nodded. Hartmann touched her on the arm and beckoned to Legat to join them.

  The hall smelled of overcooked food and disinfectant. Legat registered the details as he passed them: the carved Madonna above the door, the noticeboard covered in green baize and studded with pins but with no notices, the wheelchair at the bottom of the staircase, a pair of crutches beside it. He followed Hartmann and the nurse up to the first floor and a little way along a passage. The nurse had a large bunch of keys attached to her belt. She selected one, unlocked a door. They waited while she went inside. Legat looked at Hartmann, hoping for an explanation, but he wouldn’t meet his eye. The nurse reappeared. ‘She’s awake.’

  It
was a small room. The iron bedstead took up most of it. Her head was propped up on the pillow, a thick white nightgown buttoned to her throat. Legat would never have recognised her. Her hair was cut mannishly short, her face was much fatter, her skin waxy. But it was the lack of animation in her features, in her dark brown eyes especially, which rendered her a stranger. Hartmann went forward and took her hand and kissed her forehead. He whispered something to her. She gave no sign of having heard. He said, ‘Hugh, why don’t you come in and say hello?’

  With an effort Legat walked to the side of the bed and took her other hand. It was plump, cool, unresponsive. ‘Hello, Leyna.’

  Her head turned slightly. She looked up at him. For an instant her eyes narrowed a fraction and it seemed to him that perhaps something moved there. But afterwards he was fairly sure he had imagined it.

  On the drive back to Munich Hartmann asked Legat to light him a cigarette. He lit it, placed it between Hartmann’s lips, then took one for himself. His hand was trembling. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened to her?’

  Another silence. Eventually Hartmann said, ‘I can tell you as much as I know, which isn’t much – we split up after Munich, as you might expect, and I lost touch with her. She was too much for me. Apparently, she went back to Berlin and started working for the communists more seriously. They had a newspaper – Die Rote Fahn – she was part of that. After the Nazis came to power, they banned it, but it carried on publishing underground. As I understand it, she was caught in a raid in thirty-five and sent to Moringen, the women’s camp. She was married by then, to a fellow communist.’

  ‘What happened to her husband?’

  ‘Dead. Killed fighting in Spain.’ He said it flatly. ‘After that, they let her out. Of course, she went straight back to the comrades. They caught her again. Only this time they discovered she was Jewish and they were rougher – as you can see.’

  Legat felt sick. He crushed the cigarette between his fingers and threw it out of the car.

  ‘Her mother got in touch with me. She lives not far from here. She’s a widow, used to be a teacher, no money. She’d heard I’d joined the Party, wanted to see if I could use my influence to get her proper treatment. I did what I could, but it was hopeless – her brain was much too badly damaged. All I could do was pay for the nursing home. It’s not a bad place. Because of my position, they’ve agreed to overlook the fact that she is a Jewess.’

  ‘That’s decent of you.’

  ‘“Decent”?’ Hartmann laughed and shook his head. ‘Hardly!’

  They drove on for a while without speaking. Legat said, ‘They must have beaten her terribly.’

  ‘They said she fell out of a third-floor window. I’m sure she did. But not before they’d carved a Star of David into her back. Could I have another cigarette?’ Legat lit one for him. ‘This is the thing, Hugh. This is what we could never grasp in Oxford – because it’s beyond reason; it’s not rational.’ He waved the cigarette as he spoke, his right hand on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘This is what I have learned these past six years, as opposed to what is taught in Oxford: the power of unreason. Everyone said – by everyone I mean people like me – we all said, “Oh, he’s a terrible fellow, Hitler, but he’s not necessarily all bad. Look at his achievements. Put aside this awful medieval anti-Jew stuff: it will pass.” But the point is, it won’t pass. You can’t isolate it from the rest. It’s there in the mix. And if the anti-Semitism is evil, it’s all evil. Because if they’re capable of that, they’re capable of anything.’ He took his eyes off the road just long enough to look at Legat. His eyes were wet. ‘Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Legat, ‘I do see. I see now exactly what you mean.’

  After that, they didn’t speak for half an hour.

  It was starting to get light. There was traffic at last – a bus, a flatbed truck piled high with scrap metal. Along the railway track in the centre of the autobahn the first train of the morning was moving towards the city. They overtook it. Legat could see passengers reading newspapers announcing the agreement.

  He said, ‘So what will you do?’

  Hartmann was so absorbed in his thoughts he seemed at first not to have heard the question. ‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Carry on, presumably. I imagine this is how it must feel to realise one has an incurable disease: one knows the end is coming, but even so one can’t do anything except keep on getting up each day. This morning, for example, I have to prepare a foreign press summary. I may well be required to present it to Hitler personally. I’m told he may have taken a shine to me! Can you believe it?’

  ‘It could be useful, couldn’t it – to your cause?’

  ‘Could it? This is my dilemma. Am I right to continue to work for the regime, in the hope that one day I can do some small thing to help sabotage it from within? Or should I simply blow my brains out?’

  ‘Come on, Paul! This is too melodramatic. The former, it has to be.’

  ‘Of course, what I really ought to do is blow his brains out. But everything I am prevents me, and besides, the one sure consequence would be a bloodbath – certainly all my family would be destroyed. So in the end one goes on in hope. What a terrible thing hope is! We would all be much better off without it. There is an Oxford paradox to end with.’ He had started checking the mirror again. ‘Now I should drop you a few hundred metres away from your hotel, if you don’t mind, in case Sturmbannführer Sauer is watching. Can you find your way from here? This is the opposite end of the botanical garden we talked in yesterday.’

  He pulled up outside a grand official building – a law court, by the look of it, festooned with swastikas. At the far end of the street Legat could see the twin domed towers of the Frauenkirche. Hartmann said, ‘Farewell, my dear Hugh. All is good between us. Whatever happens we shall have the consolation of knowing that we tried.’

  Legat climbed out of the Mercedes. He closed the door behind him and turned to say goodbye but it was too late. Hartmann was already moving off into the early-morning traffic.

  2

  He walked back towards his hotel in a trance.

  At the busy intersection between the botanical garden and Maximiliansplatz he stepped off the kerb without looking. The blast of a car horn and a scream of brakes shattered his reverie. He jumped back and raised his hands in apology. The driver swore and accelerated away. Legat leaned against a lamp post and lowered his head and wept.

  By the time he reached the Regina Palast five minutes later the big hotel was coming awake. He paused just inside the entrance, took out his handkerchief, blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes. Cautiously he scanned the lobby. Guests were making their way down the stairs to the dining room; he could hear the clatter of breakfast being served. At the reception desk a family waited to check out. When he was sure there was no member of the British delegation to be seen he launched himself across the foyer towards the elevators. He summoned a car. His aim was simply to get back to his hotel room without being noticed. But when the doors opened he found himself confronted by the dandyish figure of Sir Nevile Henderson. The Ambassador had his usual carnation buttonhole in place, the inevitable jade cigarette holder between his lips. He was carrying an elegant calf-skin portmanteau. His face registered surprise.

  ‘Good morning, Legat. I see you’ve been out and about.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Nevile. I felt the need for some fresh air.’

  ‘Well, you need to get upstairs, quickly – the Prime Minister’s asking for you. Ashton-Gwatkin’s already on his way to Prague with the Czechs and I’m off to catch a plane with von Weizsäcker to Berlin.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning, sir. Have a good trip.’

  He pressed the button for the third floor. In the elevator mirror he performed a brief inspection: unshaven, crumpled, red-eyed. No wonder Henderson had been taken aback – he looked as if he’d spent the night on the tiles. He took off his hat and coat. The bell pinged, he squared his shoulders and emerged into the corridor. O
utside the Prime Minister’s suite, the Scotland Yard detective had resumed his former position. He raised his eyebrows at Legat in a look of amused complicity, knocked on the door and opened it.

  ‘Found him, sir.’

  ‘Good. Send him in.’

  Chamberlain was wearing a plaid dressing gown. His thin bare feet protruded beneath a pair of striped pyjama bottoms. His unbrushed hair was tufted, like the plumage of a grizzled bird. He was smoking a cigar. In his left hand he clutched a sheaf of papers. He said, ‘Where’s that copy of The Times with Herr Hitler’s speech in it?’

  ‘I believe it’s in your box, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Find it for me, would you, there’s a good fellow?’

  Legat put down his hat and coat on the nearest chair and took out his keys. The old man seemed full of that same purposeful energy Legat had noticed in the garden of Number 10. Nobody looking at him would dream he had barely slept. He unlocked the box and sorted through the files until he found his copy of Tuesday’s paper, the one he had been reading at the Ritz while he was waiting for Pamela. The Prime Minister took it out of his hands and carried it over to the desk. He spread it out, put on his spectacles, and peered down at it. Without turning round he said, ‘I had a word with Hitler last night, and asked if I might come and see him this morning before flying back to London.’

  Legat gaped at the Prime Minister’s back. ‘And did he agree, sir?’

  ‘I like to think I’ve learned how to handle him. I deliberately put him on the spot. He couldn’t really refuse.’ His head was nodding slowly as he ran his eye up and down the columns of type. ‘I must say, that was a quite remarkably rude young man you brought to see me last night.’

  Here it came, thought Legat. He braced himself. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, sir. I take full responsibility.’

  ‘Have you told anyone about it?’

  ‘No.’