The idea that because of the Sudeten problem, which is completely secondary to England, peace might be destroyed between our two peoples, seems to me madness and a crime against humanity. Germany has pursued an honest policy of understanding with England. It desires peace and friendship with England. But when foreign Bolshevist influences have come to the fore in English politics, Germany must be prepared for every eventuality. The responsibility before the world for such a crime would not fall to Germany – as you, my dear Lord Rothermere, know better than anyone.
He blew on the ink. Really, with Ribbentrop one could not lay it on too thick.
Hartmann lit another cigarette. He started again from the beginning, making small corrections here and there, squinting at the paper through his smoke. His eyes were a striking shade of violet, and slightly hooded. His forehead was high; his hairline, even at the age of twenty-nine, had already receded almost to his crown. His mouth was wide and voluptuous, his nose strong – it was a mobile and expressive face: compelling, unusual, almost ugly. And yet his genius was for making men and women love him.
He was about to place his draft in the basket to be sent to the typists when he heard a noise. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he felt a noise. It seemed to travel through the soles of his shoes and up the legs of his chair. The pages in his hands shook. The rumble intensified, became a roar, and for a ludicrous moment he wondered if the city was experiencing an earthquake. But then his ear picked out the distinctive note of heavy engines revving and the clank of metal tracks. The two men with whom he shared the office, von Nostitz and von Rantzau, glanced at one another and frowned. They got to their feet and went over to the window. Hartmann joined them.
A column of drab, olive-green armoured vehicles was trundling south down Wilhelmstrasse from the direction of the Unter den Linden – artillery half-tracks, Panzers on the backs of tank-transporters, heavy guns towed by trucks and by teams of horses. Hartmann craned his neck. It went on for as far as he could see: a full motorised division to judge by the length of it.
Von Nostitz, who was older than Hartmann and one grade higher, said, ‘My God, is it already starting?’
Hartmann went back to his desk, picked up his telephone and dialled an extension. He had to cover his left ear with his hand to shut out the noise. A metallic voice at the other end said: ‘Kordt.’
‘It’s Paul. What’s happening?’
‘Meet me downstairs.’ Kordt rang off.
Hartmann took his hat from the stand. Von Nostitz said mockingly, ‘Are you going to join up?’
‘No, obviously I’m going outside to cheer our gallant Wehrmacht.’
He hurried along the high gloomy corridor, down the central staircase and through the double doors. A short flight of steps, blue-carpeted in the centre and flanked by a pair of stone sphinxes, led to the entrance hall. To Hartmann’s surprise the lobby was deserted, even though the air itself seemed to be vibrating with the noise from outside. Kordt joined him a minute later, his briefcase wedged under his arm. He had taken off his spectacles and was breathing on the lenses, polishing them on the thick end of his tie. Together they went out into the street.
Only a handful of Foreign Ministry staff had gathered on the pavement to watch. Across the road, of course, it was a different story: in the Propaganda Ministry they were practically hanging out of the windows. The sky was overcast, yearning to rain – Hartmann felt a drop of moisture on his cheek. Kordt took him by the arm and together they walked in the same direction as the column. A score of red-white-and-black swastika banners hung motionless above their heads. They gave the grey stone facade of the Ministry a festive air. But it was striking how few people were lingering on the street. Nobody was waving or cheering; mostly they had their heads down, or were staring fixedly ahead. Hartmann wondered what had gone wrong. Normally the Party stage-managed these things much better.
Kordt had yet to speak. The Rhinelander was taking quick, nervous steps. About two-thirds of the way down the length of the building he steered them into an unused entrance. The heavy wooden door was permanently barred; the porch offered privacy from prying eyes. Not that there was much to see: just the head of the Foreign Minister’s Private Office – a harmless, bespectacled, clerkish figure – and a tall young Legationsekretär, holding an impromptu meeting.
Kordt clasped his briefcase to his chest, undid the catch and drew out a typewritten document. He gave it to Hartmann. Six pages, typed in the extra-large characters the Führer preferred, to spare his far-seeing eyes whenever he had to deal with bureaucratic trivia. It was an account of his meeting that morning with Sir Horace Wilson, written up by the Foreign Ministry’s chief interpreter, Dr Schmidt. Couched in the blandest official language, Hartmann could nevertheless visualise what it described as vividly as if it were a scene in a novel.
The obsequious Wilson had congratulated the Führer on the warm reception of his speech at the Sportpalast the previous evening (as if anything else was possible), had thanked him for his kind references to Prime Minister Chamberlain, and at one point had asked the others present – Ribbentrop, together with Ambassador Henderson and First Secretary Kirkpatrick of the British Embassy – to step out of the room briefly so that he could assure Hitler in private, man to man, that London would continue to put pressure on the Czechs. (Schmidt had even recorded his words in his original English: I will still try to make those Czechos sensible.) But none of that could disguise the central fact of the encounter: that Wilson had had the temerity to read out a prepared statement declaring that in the event of hostilities the British would support the French, and had then asked the Führer to repeat back what he had just told him, to be sure there was no misunderstanding! Little wonder Hitler had lost his temper and told Wilson he didn’t care what the French or British did, that he had spent billions preparing for war, and if war was what they wanted, then war was what they would get.
Hartmann thought it was like watching an unarmed passer-by trying to persuade a madman to hand over his gun.
‘So it will be war after all.’
He returned the document to Kordt who locked it back in his briefcase.
‘That appears to be the case. Half an hour after the meeting ended –’ Kordt nodded towards the armoured column – ‘the Führer ordered this. It’s no accident it’s driving straight past the British Embassy.’
The noise of the engines split the warm air. Hartmann could taste the dust and the sweetness of the fuel on his tongue. He had to shout over the noise. ‘Who are they? Where are they from?’
‘Witzleben’s men from the Berlin garrison, heading to the Czech frontier.’
Behind his back Hartmann clenched his fist. At last! He felt a rush of anticipation. ‘So now, you must agree, there is no alternative, yes? We must act?’
Kordt nodded slowly. ‘I feel like I’m going to be sick.’ Suddenly he put a warning hand on Hartmann’s arm. A policeman was walking towards them, his truncheon drawn.
‘Gentlemen! Good afternoon! The Führer is on the balcony.’ He gestured with his truncheon further along the street. His manner was respectful, encouraging. He was not telling them what to do, merely alerting them to an historic opportunity.
Kordt said, ‘Thank you, officer.’
The two diplomats stepped back into the street.
The Reich Chancellery stood next to the Foreign Ministry. Across the road, in Wilhelmplatz, a small crowd had gathered in the broad expanse of the square. This was unquestionably a Party claque; some even wore swastika armbands. From time to time, a ragged shout of ‘Heil!’ went up, and arms were raised in salute. The men in the armoured column swivelled their heads eyes right, and saluted. Young men mostly – far younger than Hartmann. He was close enough to see their expressions: amazement, wonder, pride. Beyond the high black iron railings of the Reich Chancellery was a courtyard; above the main entrance to the building, a balcony; on the balcony the unmistakable lone figure – brown jacket, brown cap, left hand clutching
the buckle of his black belt, the right arm occasionally flashing out, robotic in its absolute steadiness: palm flat, fingers extended. He couldn’t have been more than fifty metres away.
Kordt saluted and muttered, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Hartmann did the same.
Once it was past the Chancellery, the column accelerated south towards Blücherplatz.
Hartmann said, ‘How many people would you say have turned out to watch?’
Kordt scanned the few groups of spectators. ‘I’d say no more than two hundred.’
‘He won’t like that.’
‘No, he won’t. For once I do believe the regime has made a mistake. The Führer was so flattered by Chamberlain’s visits, he let Goebbels tell the media to go to town. The German people thought they were going to get peace. Now they’re told they’re going to get war after all, and they don’t like it.’
‘So when are we going to act? Surely this has to be the time?’
‘Oster wants us to meet tonight. A new place: number nine Goethe Strasse, in Lichterfelde.’
‘Lichterfelde? Why does he want us to meet all the way out there?’
‘Who knows? Arrive as close to ten as you can. It’s going to be a busy evening.’
Kordt clasped Hartmann’s shoulder briefly then walked away. Hartmann stood for a while longer, his eyes trained on the figure on the balcony. Security was astonishingly light – a couple of policemen at the entrance to the courtyard, two SS men on the door. There would be more inside, but even so … Of course, once war was declared it would be a different matter. Then they would never get anywhere near him.
After a couple more minutes the figure on the balcony seemed to have had enough. He dropped his arm, peered up and down Wilhelmstrasse like the manager of a theatre appraising the disappointing size of the night’s audience, turned his back and stepped through the curtains into the Chancellery. The door closed.
Hartmann took off his hat and flattened his thinning hair, then pulled down the brim once more and walked back thoughtfully in the direction of his office.
3
At 6 p.m. precisely, the tolling of Big Ben carried into Number 10 through the open windows.
As if on cue, Miss Watson stood, collected her hat and coat, wished Legat a crisp ‘Good evening’ and left the office carrying one of the Prime Minister’s red dispatch boxes filled to the brim with her carefully annotated files. The recall of Parliament for an emergency debate on the Czech crisis had put an end to her leisurely summer. Legat knew she would now bicycle, as she always did, down Whitehall to the Palace of Westminster, leave her ancient machine in New Place Yard, and walk up a private staircase to the Prime Minister’s office, which lay across the corridor behind the Speaker’s chair. There she would meet Mr Chamberlain’s Parliamentary Private Secretary, Lord Dunglass, upon whom she had an obvious and unrequited crush, in order to discuss answers for PM’s written questions.
This was Legat’s chance.
He closed the door, sat at his desk, picked up the telephone and called the switchboard. He tried to make his tone casual. ‘Good evening. Legat here. Could you please put me through to this number: Victoria 7472?’
From the instant the meeting with the Chiefs of Staff had ended until that very moment, Legat had been fully occupied. Now at last he laid his notes down on the desk. Trained since childhood for the gladiatorial combat of the examination hall – school, scholarship, Oxford finals, Foreign Office entrance – he had written on one side of the paper only, to avoid smudging the ink. PM expressed concern at adequacy of home air defence … Quickly, he turned the foolscap sheets over, so that the blank side was uppermost. As ordered, he would destroy them. But not quite yet. Something was preventing him. He could not say precisely what – an odd sense of propriety, perhaps. All afternoon, as he had ferried in successive visitors to see the Prime Minister and compiled the documents the PM needed for his speech to Parliament, he had felt himself privy to the real truth. This was the information upon which government policy would be decided: one might almost say nothing else much mattered in comparison. Diplomacy, morality, law, obligation – what did these weigh in the scales against military strength? An RAF squadron, if he remembered correctly, consisted of twenty planes. So at high altitude there were only twenty modern fighters with working guns to defend the entire country.
‘Putting you through now, sir.’
There was a click as the connection was made, followed by the long double-purr of the number ringing. She answered far quicker than he had expected, and brightly: ‘Victoria 7472.’
‘Pamela, it’s me.’
‘Oh, hello, Hugh.’
She sounded surprised, and possibly also disappointed. He said, ‘Listen, I can’t speak for long, so please concentrate on what I’m about to say. I want you to pack a week’s worth of clothes and get the garage to drive you and the children to your parents’ right away.’
‘But it’s six o’clock.’
‘They’ll still be open.’
‘Why do we have to go in such a rush? What’s happened?’
‘Nothing. Nothing yet, anyway. I just want to know you’re somewhere safe.’
‘It sounds rather panicky. I hate people who panic.’
He tightened his grip on the receiver. ‘But I’m afraid people are going to panic, darling.’ He glanced at the door; someone was walking past; their footsteps seemed to stop. He lowered his voice but spoke with greater urgency. ‘By later tonight it may be very hard to get out of London. You need to go now, while the roads are still clear.’ She started to object. ‘Don’t argue with me, Pamela. Will you just, for once, do something I bloody well ask?’
There was a pause. She said quietly, ‘And what about you?’
‘I have to stay here overnight. I’ll try to call you later. I have to go now. You will do this? You promise me?’
‘Yes, all right, if you insist.’ He could hear one of the children in the background. She hushed them: ‘Quiet, I’m talking to your father.’ And then to him: ‘Do you want me to bring you an overnight bag?’
‘No, don’t worry. I’ll try to slip out at some point. You concentrate on getting out of London.’
‘I love you – you do know that?’
‘I know.’
She waited. He knew he ought to say something back but he couldn’t find the words. There was a clatter as she hung up, and then all he could hear was the dialling tone.
Someone knocked on the door.
‘Just a moment.’ He folded his notes from the Chiefs of Staff meeting in half, and then in half again, and slipped them into his inside pocket.
In the corridor was Wren, the messenger. Legat wondered if he had been listening. But all he said was, ‘The BBC have arrived.’
For the first time since the crisis started, there was a large crowd in Downing Street. They had gathered quietly near the photographers on the opposite side of the street to Number 10. What seemed to have attracted their attention most was a large dark-green van with the BBC’s coat of arms and OUTSIDE BROADCAST painted on its sides in gold lettering. It was parked just to the left of the front door. A pair of technicians was feeding cables from the back of the van, across the pavement, and through one of the sash windows.
Legat stood on the doorstep arguing with the young engineer, whose name was Wood. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s just not possible.’
‘Why not?’ Wood wore a V-necked pullover under a brown corduroy suit.
‘Because the Prime Minister will be holding meetings in the Cabinet Room until half-past seven.’
‘Can’t he hold them somewhere else?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’
‘Well, in that case, couldn’t we do the broadcast from a different room?’
‘No, he wishes to address the British people from the heart of government, and that is the Cabinet Room.’
‘Well, look – we’re on the air at eight and it’s gone six now. What if the equipment fails because we haven’t tested it properly??
??
‘You’ll have half an hour at the very least, and if I can get you any more time, I shall—’
He broke off. Behind Wood’s shoulder, a black Austin 10 was turning from Whitehall into Downing Street. The driver had switched on the headlamps in the early-evening gloom and was edging forwards slowly to avoid hitting some of the onlookers who had spilled off the pavement into the road. The newsreel cameramen recognised the passenger before Legat did. The brilliance of their arc lights briefly blinded him. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. He muttered, ‘Excuse me,’ to Wood, and stepped down on to the pavement. As the car drew to a halt he opened the rear door.
Hunched down in his seat, Sir Horace Wilson had an umbrella between his knees and a briefcase cradled on his lap. He gave Legat a weak smile and slid out of the car. On the step of Number 10 he turned for an instant, his expression lugubrious and non-committal. The flashbulbs popped. He scuttled inside, like some nocturnal animal allergic to light, ignoring his companion who was emerging from the other side of the car. He advanced towards Legat, hand outstretched. ‘Colonel Mason-MacFarlane. Military attaché, Berlin.’
The policeman saluted.
In the entrance hall, Wilson was already shedding his overcoat and hat. The Prime Minister’s Special Adviser was a slight, almost emaciated figure, with a long nose and pendulous ears. Legat had never found him less than polite, even on occasions slyly charming – the sort of reserved senior colleague he feared might one day unburden himself of confidences one would prefer not to hear. He had made his reputation at the Ministry of Labour dealing with trade union leaders. The thought that he had come straight from delivering an ultimatum to Adolf Hitler was bizarre. Nevertheless, the Prime Minister considered him indispensable. He placed his rolled umbrella carefully into the stand next to his master’s and turned to Legat. ‘Where’s the PM?’
‘He’s in his study, Sir Horace, working on his broadcast for tonight. Everyone else is in the Cabinet Room.’