Munich
‘Yes, sir.’
Cadogan replaced the telegram in the folder and gave it to him. ‘As far as the other business is concerned, I’ll put it into the system, see what our people make of it. I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you tomorrow. Give the matter some thought. Try to work out who’s behind it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cadogan reached for another file.
According to the Cabinet minutes, telegram 545 from Berlin (Letter from the Reichschancellor to the Prime Minister) was handed to Chamberlain a little after 10 p.m. The Cabinet table was full: twenty ministers in all, not counting Horace Wilson – who was attending in his capacity as Special Adviser to report on his meeting with Hitler – and the Cabinet Secretary, Edward Bridges, a bespectacled donnish figure whose father had been Poet Laureate. Most were smoking. One of the big sash windows overlooking the garden had been opened in an attempt to disperse the fug of cigars and pipes and cigarettes. A warm night breeze occasionally fluttered the papers that were spread around the table and strewn across the carpet.
Lord Halifax was speaking when Legat entered. He moved discreetly to the Prime Minister’s side and laid the telegram in front of him. Chamberlain, who was listening to the Foreign Secretary, glanced at it, nodded in acknowledgement, and gestured with a slight inclination of his head that Legat should go and sit with the other officials in the row of chairs that lined the wall at the far end of the room. Two were occupied by note-takers from the Cabinet Office, both scribbling away, the third by Cleverly. His chin was on his chest, his arms and legs crossed, his right foot twitching slightly. He looked around gloomily as Legat slipped into the seat next to him, leaned sideways and whispered, ‘What was that?’
‘The reply from Hitler.’
‘What does it say?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t look.’
‘That was remiss of you. Let’s hope it’s good news. I’m afraid the poor PM’s having rather a sticky time of it.’
Legat had a clear sideways view of Chamberlain. He had put on his spectacles and was reading Hitler’s letter. He couldn’t see the Foreign Secretary, who was sitting opposite the PM, but his voice was unmistakable, with its rolling ‘r’s’ and its tone of confident moral authority, as if he were speaking from some invisible pulpit.
‘… and therefore with considerable regret I fear I cannot, in good conscience, support the Prime Minister on this particular matter. I would feel great difficulty in sending the telegram as drafted by Sir Horace. To tell the Czechs to hand over their territory at once, under the threat of force, would amount in my opinion to complete capitulation.’
He paused to take a sip of water. There was a perceptible tightening in the atmosphere around the table. The Holy Fox had broken cover! A couple of Ministers actually leaned in to make sure they were hearing correctly.
‘I quite understand,’ Halifax went on, ‘that if we don’t send Sir Horace’s telegram, the consequences may be grievous for many millions of people, including our own. It may make war certain. But we simply cannot urge the Czechs to do what we believe to be wrong. Nor do I think the House of Commons will accept it. Finally – and this to me is the crux of the matter – we cannot offer the Czechs any firm guarantee that the German Army will content themselves with stopping at the borders of the Sudetenland and will not go on to occupy the entire country.’
All eyes turned to Chamberlain. In profile, the bushy grey eyebrows and moustache seemed to bristle; the hawk’s-beak nose tilted up in defiance. He did not like to be contradicted. Legat wondered if he might lose his temper. It was not something he had witnessed. On the rare occasions it did occur, it was said to be spectacular. Instead the Prime Minister said coldly, ‘The Foreign Secretary has just given us powerful and perhaps even convincing arguments against my proposal, although it does seem to me to be the last real chance we have.’ He looked around at the faces of his ministers. ‘But if that is the general view of colleagues …’ He left an expectant pause, like an auctioneer hoping for a final bid. Nobody spoke. ‘If that is the general view,’ he repeated, and now his voice was harsh in defeat, ‘I am prepared to leave it at that.’ He looked at Horace Wilson. ‘The telegram will not be sent.’
A collective shifting in seats and adjustment of papers ensued – the sound of peaceable men girding themselves reluctantly for war. The Prime Minister’s voice cut through the murmur. He was not done yet.
‘Before we proceed further, I should inform the Cabinet that I have just received a reply from Herr Hitler. I believe it might be useful if I were to read it to you now.’
Several of his more sycophantic ministers – Maugham, the Lord Chancellor; ‘Shakes’ Morrison of Agriculture – said, ‘Yes,’ and, ‘Absolutely.’
The Prime Minister picked up the telegram. ‘“Dear Mr Chamberlain, I have in the course of conversations once more informed Sir Horace Wilson, who brought me your letter of the twenty-sixth of September, of my final attitude …”’
It was disconcerting to hear Hitler’s demands coming out of Chamberlain’s mouth. It made them sound quite reasonable. After all, why should the Czech Government object to the immediate occupation of territory which they had already conceded in principle should be transferred to Germany? ‘“This represents no more than a security measure which is intended to guarantee a quick and smooth achievement of the final settlement.”’ When they complained about the loss of their border fortifications, surely the world could see they were only stalling for time? ‘“If one were to wait for the entry into force of the final settlement in which Czechoslovakia had completed new fortifications in the territory that remained to her, it would doubtless take months and years.”’ And so it went on. It was almost as if Hitler had been given a seat at the Cabinet table to make his case. At the end, the Prime Minister took off his spectacles. ‘Well, that is obviously very carefully drafted and will require more time to analyse, but it doesn’t leave me entirely without hope.’
Duff Cooper, the First Lord of the Admiralty, piped up at once. ‘On the contrary, Prime Minister, he hasn’t conceded a single point!’ He was a raffish figure who always exuded, even in mid-morning, a vague late-night whiff of whisky and cigars and the perfume of other men’s wives. His face was flushed. Legat couldn’t tell whether it was anger or if he had been drinking.
‘That may be true,’ said Halifax, ‘but it’s noticeable he hasn’t entirely slammed the door, either. He does conclude by inviting the Prime Minister to continue his efforts for peace.’
‘Yes, but only in the most lukewarm manner: “I leave it to you to decide if it’s worth carrying on.” He obviously doesn’t mean it for a moment. He’s just trying to shift the blame for his aggression on to the Czechs.’
‘Well, that is not without significance in itself. It suggests that even Hitler feels he can’t entirely ignore world opinion. It may give you something to work on, Prime Minister.’
Now see how the Holy Fox doubles his tracks, thought Legat – one minute for war and the next for peace …
Chamberlain said, ‘Thank you, Foreign Secretary.’ His tone was chilly; clearly he had not forgiven him. ‘You all know my convictions. I intend to go on working for peace until the last possible moment.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the clock. ‘Time is drawing on. I need to prepare my statement to Parliament tomorrow. Obviously I shall have to go further than I did in my broadcast this evening. The House will need to be informed of our warning to Hitler this morning. I suggest we agree collectively on the form of words I should use.’ He caught Legat’s eye and beckoned him over. In a quiet voice he said, ‘Would you be so good as to find me a copy of Hitler’s speech from last night? Bring it to me after Cabinet.’
The only version of Hitler’s speech that Legat could lay his hands on was the one published in that morning’s Times. He sat at his desk with his own copy and smoothed the pages flat with his palms. Already it seemed an age since he was sitting reading it in the Ritz, waiting for Pamela to arrive. He suddenly remember
ed he had promised to call her in the country. He eyed the telephone. It was probably too late now. The children would both be in bed, and doubtless Pamela would have drunk one cocktail too many and had a row with her parents. The awfulness of the day overwhelmed him: the abandoned lunch, the workmen in Green Park, the barrage balloons rising over the Thames, the gas masks for his children, the car pulling away from the kerb in North Street … And tomorrow would be worse. Tomorrow the Germans would mobilise and he would be questioned by the Secret Intelligence Service. He would not be able to deflect them as easily as he had Cadogan. They would have his file.
He heard voices. It sounded as though the Cabinet meeting was over. He stood and crossed to the door. The Ministers were emerging into the corridor. Normally after Cabinet there was some laughter, a little back-slapping, even an occasional argument. There was none of that tonight. Apart from a couple of hushed conversations, most of the politicians put their heads down and hurried out of Number 10 alone. He watched the tall solitary figure of Halifax put on his bowler hat and collect his umbrella from the stand. Through the open door came the now-familiar cold white flickering and shouted questions.
Legat waited until he judged the Prime Minister must be alone, then entered the Cabinet Room. It was deserted. The litter and the overwhelming smell of stale tobacco smoke reminded him of a railway station waiting room. To his right, the door to Cleverly’s office was half-open. He could hear the Secretary to the Cabinet and the Principal Private Secretary conferring. To his left, the door to Horace Wilson’s room was closed. He knocked and heard Wilson call out for him to come in.
Wilson was at a side table, squirting soda from a siphon into two tumblers of what looked like brandy. The Prime Minister was sprawled back in an armchair, legs outstretched, arms dangling over the sides. His eyes were closed. He opened them as Legat approached.
‘I’m afraid I could only find the speech in The Times, Prime Minister.’
‘That’s all right. That’s where I read it. God!’
With a groan of exhaustion, he hauled himself from the depths of the armchair. His legs moved stiffly. He took the newspaper, placed it open at the speech on Wilson’s desk, extracted his spectacles from his breast pocket and began looking up and down the columns of newsprint. His mouth hung open slightly. Wilson came over from the side table and politely showed Legat the tumbler. Legat shook his head. ‘No, thank you, Sir Horace.’ Wilson placed it next to the Prime Minister. He looked at Legat and raised his eyebrows slightly. There was something almost shocking in the complicity of it – the suggestion that they were both having to humour the old man.
The Prime Minister said, ‘This is it: “We have never found a single Great Power in Europe with a man at its head who has as much understanding for the distress of our people as my great friend Benito Mussolini. We shall never forget what he has done in this time, or the attitude of the Italian people. If similar distress should ever befall Italy, I shall go to the German people and ask them to do for the Italians what the Italians have done for us.”’ He pushed the paper across the desk for Wilson to look at. He picked up the tumbler and took a sip. ‘Do you see what I mean?’
‘I do.’
‘Hitler plainly isn’t going to listen to me, but he might well listen to Musso.’ He sat at the desk, took a sheet of Number 10 notepaper and dipped a pen in the inkwell. He paused to take another drink, gazed ahead in thought, then started to write. After a while, he said to Legat, without looking up, ‘I want you to take this to the Foreign Office cipher room right away and have them telegraph it immediately to Lord Perth at the embassy in Rome.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
Wilson said, ‘If you’re writing to the Ambassador, don’t you think you ought to tell the Foreign Office?’
‘Damn the Foreign Office.’ The Prime Minister blotted the wet ink. He turned and smiled up at Legat. ‘Please forget you heard that last remark.’ He held out the letter. ‘And when you’ve done that we’ll get to work on my speech to Parliament.’
A minute later, Legat was hurrying back across Downing Street towards the Foreign Office. The road was clear. The crowds had gone. Thick cloud over London obscured the stars and moon. An hour remained until midnight.
6
The lights were still switched on in Potsdamer Platz, looming war or no. The dome of the Haus Vaterland, with its UFA-cinema and its giant café, was lit by traceries of four thousand electric bulbs. Opposite it, an illuminated billboard showed a movie star with glistening jet-black hair, his face at least ten metres high, smoking a Makedon cigarette – ‘Perfekt!’
Hartmann waited for a tram to pass, then strolled across the street to the Bahnhof Wannsee. Five minutes later he was aboard one of the suburban electric trains, rattling south-west into the night. He could not entirely throw off the sensation that he was being followed, even though his carriage – he had chosen to ride in the last one – was empty apart from a pair of drunks and an SA man reading the Völkischer Beobachter. The drunks got off at Schöneberg, bowing to him elaborately as they left, and then it was only him and the Stormtrooper. The city lights dwindled. Great areas of darkness spread around him like mysterious black lakes; he guessed they must be parks. From time to time the train jolted and threw out blue flashes of electric sparks. They stopped at little stations – Friedenau and Feuerbachstrasse – the automatic doors opening on to deserted platforms. Finally, as they came into Steglitz the SA man folded his paper and got to his feet. He brushed past Hartmann on his way to the door. He smelled of sweat and beer and leather. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and turned to address Hartmann. His plump, brown-clad body swayed with the train; he reminded Hartmann of a fat chrysalis about to burst.
‘Those fellows were disgusting.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. They seemed harmless enough.’
‘No, should’ve been locked up.’
The doors opened and he stumbled out on to the platform. As the train pulled away Hartmann looked back and saw him bent over, hands on his knees, vomiting.
Out here, the trees grew close to the track. The trunks of silver birches flashed past, luminous in the dark. One might imagine oneself to be in a forest. He rested his cheek against the cool glass of the window and thought of home and boyhood and camping in the summer, of singing and campfires, of the Wandervogel and the Nibelungenbund, of the noble elite and the salvation of the nation. He felt a sudden sense of exhilaration. A few more passengers got off at Botanischer Garten and at last he felt sure he was alone. At the next stop, Lichterfelde West, he was the only person to alight on to the platform until the very last moment when the doors had already started to close and a man in the carriage in front just managed to squeeze through the gap. He glanced briefly over his shoulder as the train pulled away and Hartmann had an impression of a blunt-jawed, brutal face. The Liebstandarte-SS Adolf Hitler – the Führer’s bodyguard – had their barracks in Lichterfelde: perhaps he was an officer, off duty. The man bent to tie his shoelace and Hartmann walked quickly past him, along the platform, up the flight of steps, through the deserted station with its closed ticket office, and out into the street.
He had memorised the route before he left the office – right, right, fourth left – but instinct warned him to wait. He crossed the cobbled square in front of the station and stood in the doorway of a butcher’s shop opposite. The station was eccentric. It had been built in the last century to resemble an Italianate villa. He felt as if he were a spy in a foreign country. After half a minute his fellow passenger emerged, hesitated and looked around, as if searching for Hartmann, then turned right and disappeared. Hartmann gave it another five minutes before he set off.
It was a pleasant, leafy, bourgeois suburb – hardly a place in which to plot treason. Most of the inhabitants were already asleep, their shutters closed. A couple of dogs barked as he passed. He wondered why Oster wanted them to meet out here. He walked down Königsberger Strasse and into Goethe Strasse. Number 9 was a plain, double-fronted hous
e – the sort of villa a bank manager might choose to live in, or a headmaster. The lights in the front windows were off and suddenly it occurred to him that he might be walking into a trap. Kordt was a Nazi, after all. He had worked with Ribbentrop for years. But then Hartmann was a Party member himself: if one wanted to rise to a position of any influence, one had to be. He banished his suspicion, opened the little wooden gate, marched up the path to the front door and rang the bell.
A well-educated voice said, ‘Identify yourself.’
‘Hartmann. Foreign Ministry.’
The door was unlocked. An elderly, bald-headed man of about sixty stood on the threshold. Large round melancholy blue eyes were set deep into his skull. A small duelling scar ran horizontally just below the left corner of his mouth. It was a fine, intelligent face. In his grey suit and blue tie, he might have been a professor. ‘Beck,’ he said, and stuck out his hand. He pulled Hartmann into the house with a firm grip, then shut the door and locked it.
My God, thought Hartmann, Ludwig Beck – General Beck – the Chief of the General Staff.
‘This way, please.’ Beck led him down a passage towards a room at the back of the house where half a dozen men were seated. ‘I presume you know most of these gentlemen.’
‘Indeed.’ Hartmann nodded a general greeting. How much the strain had aged them over just the last few months! There was the clerkish Kordt, whose elder brother Theo was the chargé d’affaires at the embassy in London – another member of the opposition – who so hated Ribbentrop he had decided he was willing to risk his neck to stop him; and Colonel Oster, the deputy head of military intelligence, a cavalryman of charm, who was their leader, in so far as so fissiparous a group could tolerate such a thing; and Hans Bernd Gisevius and Count von Schulenburg of the Interior Ministry; and Hans von Dohnányi of the Justice Ministry. The sixth man he didn’t know, but he recognised him. It was the S-Bahn passenger he had seen earlier tying his shoelaces at the railway station.