Oster noticed his look of surprise. ‘This is Captain Friedrich Heinz. I don’t expect you know him. He’s on my staff at the Abwehr. He is our “man of action”,’ he added with a smile.
Hartmann didn’t doubt it. The Abwehr man had the face of a boxer who had been in too many fights.
‘We’ve met,’ said Hartmann, ‘after a fashion.’
He sat down on the sofa. The room was oppressively hot and cramped. A pair of heavy velvet curtains was drawn across the window. The bookshelves were full of literature – French as well as German – and volumes of philosophy. On the table was a jug of water and some small glasses.
Oster said, ‘I’m grateful to General Beck for agreeing to see us tonight. The general would like to say something, I believe.’
Beck had seated himself on a hard wooden chair that placed him slightly higher than the rest of them. ‘Only Colonel Oster and Herr Gisevius are aware of what I am about to tell you.’ His voice was dry, clipped, precise. ‘A little under six weeks ago, I resigned as Chief of the General Staff in protest at the plan to go to war with Czechoslovakia. You won’t have heard of my action because I promised the Führer I wouldn’t make it public. I regret agreeing to his request, but there it is – I gave my word. However, I am still in touch with my former colleagues in the high command, and I can tell you there is strong opposition to what is happening – so strong, that I believe that if Hitler issues the order for mobilisation tomorrow, there is a good chance the Army will disobey it and move against the regime instead.’
There was a silence. Hartmann could feel his heartbeat accelerating.
Oster said, ‘Obviously this changes everything. We now have to be prepared to act decisively tomorrow. We may never get a better chance.’
Kordt said sceptically, ‘And how is this “coup” to happen?’
‘With one stroke: the arrest of Hitler.’
‘The Army will do this?’
‘No, we will need to do it.’
‘But surely only the Army has the strength to accomplish such a task?’
Beck said, ‘The Wehrmacht’s difficulty is that we have sworn an oath of loyalty to the Führer. However, if there were to be some sort of disturbance in the Chancellery, the Army could certainly move in to maintain order. That would not be incompatible with our oath. It’s merely that the first move against Hitler could not be ours. It would have to come from others.’
Oster said, ‘I have been analysing this for weeks. It really wouldn’t take many men to arrest Hitler, provided we had the advantage of surprise, along with an undertaking that the Army would then protect us from any rescue attempt by the SS. Captain Heinz and I estimate we would need an initial force of about fifty men.’
‘And where are we to find these fifty men?’ asked Kordt.
‘We already have them,’ said Heinz. ‘Experienced fighters, prepared to move tomorrow.’
‘Good God!’ Kordt stared at him as if he were crazy. ‘Who are they? Where are they? How are they armed?’
‘The Abwehr will issue them with weapons,’ said Oster. ‘We are also providing them with safe houses close to Wilhelmstrasse where they can wait until they receive the signal to move.’
Heinz said, ‘They will be in position at dawn tomorrow. Each one of these men is a reliable comrade, known personally to me. Remember, I fought with Kapp in 1920, then with the Stahlhelm.’
‘It’s true – if anyone can pull it off, Heinz can.’ Hartmann knew Schulenburg only vaguely – a socialist aristocrat who had joined the Party before it came to power, and who had since become disillusioned. Nowadays he was stuck in some low-level police job in the Interior Ministry.
Schulenburg said to Beck, ‘And you really think, General, that the Army will turn on the Führer, after all he’s done for them, and for Germany?’
‘I agree that much of what he’s achieved in the foreign sphere has been remarkable – the return of the Rhineland, the incorporation of Austria. But the point is, they were bloodless victories. And the return of the Sudetenland could be bloodless, too. Unfortunately, he isn’t interested in achieving his aims peacefully any more. The truth about Hitler, I came to realise over the summer, is that he actually wants war with Czechoslovakia. He is under the delusion that he is some kind of military genius, even though he never rose higher than corporal. You fail to understand the man unless you understand that. And on one thing the Army is agreed: war with France and Britain this year would be a disaster for Germany.’
Hartmann took his opportunity to speak. ‘Actually, I can show you the latest proof that Hitler wants war.’ He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the text of Hitler’s letter to Chamberlain. ‘This is the Führer’s response to the British, sent to London earlier tonight.’ He handed the telegram to Oster, then sat back and lit a cigarette and watched as the letter was passed around.
Kordt said, ‘How did you get hold of this?’
‘I had to take it from the Reich Chancellery to the British Embassy. I made a copy.’
‘That was quick work!’
‘Well, this settles it, gentlemen,’ said Oster when he had finished reading. ‘There’s not a hint of compromise anywhere in it.’
Beck said, ‘It’s tantamount to a declaration of war.’
Oster said, ‘We need to get it into the hands of the Commander-in-Chief, first thing tomorrow morning. If this doesn’t convince him that Hitler isn’t bluffing, nothing will. Is it all right for us to keep it, Hartmann, or does it need to go back to the Foreign Ministry?’
Hartmann said, ‘No, you can show that to the Army.’
Dohnańyi – a skinny, bespectacled figure, who even in his mid-thirties still looked like a law student – raised his hand. ‘I have a question for Captain Heinz. Assuming we succeed in arresting Hitler tomorrow, what will we do with him?’
‘Kill him,’ said Heinz.
‘No, no, no – I don’t agree with that.’
‘Why not? Do you imagine he’d hesitate for a second to do the same to us?’
‘Of course not, but I don’t want to stoop to his level of brutality. Besides, killing him would turn him into the greatest martyr in German history. The country would live in his shadow for generations.’
‘Naturally, we won’t announce we killed him. We can simply say he died in the fighting.’
‘That won’t fool anyone. The truth will come out – it always does.’ He appealed to the room. ‘Gisevius – help me here.’
‘I don’t know what I think.’ Gisevius was a baby-faced lawyer who had started his career in the Gestapo until he realised the sort of people he was working with. ‘I suppose the best course would be to put him on trial. We have a file of evidence against him a metre thick.’
Beck said, ‘I agree absolutely. I couldn’t be a party to any extra-judicial killing. The fellow should be taken somewhere secure and subjected to a thorough psychiatric examination. Then he can either be locked away in an asylum or made to account for his crimes.’
Heinz muttered, ‘Psychiatric examination!’
Oster said, ‘Kordt? What’s your opinion?’
‘The problem with a trial is that it will give him a platform. He would be brilliant in a courtroom. Remember what happened after the Beer Hall Putsch.’
‘That’s true. Hartmann? Your view?’
‘If you want my advice, we should kill the whole filthy lot of them – Himmler, Goebbels, Göring – the entire criminal gang.’ The violence in his voice surprised him. His fists were clenched. He stopped, conscious of Oster staring at him.
‘My dear Hartmann – usually so detached and ironical! Who knew you carried such hate?’
Heinz was looking at him with interest for the first time. ‘You say you were in the Chancellery this evening?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Could you make sure you were there tomorrow morning?’
‘Perhaps.’ Hartmann glanced over at Kordt. ‘Erich, what do you think?’
‘I expect
we could find some pretext. Why?’
‘We need someone on the inside to make sure the doors stay open.’
‘All right.’ Hartmann nodded. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Good.’
Dohnányi said, ‘But what shall we do with Hitler, gentlemen? What is our decision?’
The conspirators looked from one to another. Eventually, Oster said, ‘This is like arguing about what form of government we should have after the Third Reich. Will it be a monarchy or a democratic republic, or some combination of the two? The fact is, as the proverb says, before you can cook your rabbit you first have to catch it. Our absolute priority has to be stopping this madman from issuing the order for mobilisation tomorrow afternoon. All else must be secondary to that objective. If he surrenders himself into our custody – all well and good, and we’ll take him alive. If it looks as though he might get away, I don’t think we have any choice except to shoot him. Can we agree on that?’
Hartmann was the first to nod. ‘I second that.’ One by one the others followed suit, including eventually Dohnańyi, and – finally and most obviously reluctantly – Beck.
‘Good,’ said Oster, with a sigh of relief. ‘That at least is settled. Tomorrow we strike.’
They left the house at intervals to avoid attracting attention. Hartmann was the first to go. A brief handshake with each of the others; an exchange of glances; a muttered ‘Good luck’ from Oster; that was all.
The contrast between the violence they were contemplating and the sleeping suburban street was so incongruous that Hartmann had barely gone fifty paces before the entire encounter began to seem like an hallucination. He had to repeat the astonishing truth to himself: By this time tomorrow Hitler could be dead. It was both impossible and yet entirely feasible. The hurling of a bomb, the pulling of a trigger, the slashing of a knife across the tyrant’s throat – wasn’t this how history was so often made? For a moment he imagined himself as some noble young senator, walking back from Brutus’s house on the eve of the Ides of March, down from the Palatine to the Forum Romanum under the same cloudy European sky.
He saw a signpost pointing to the river. On impulse he followed it. He was too restless to think of returning to his apartment. In the middle of the bridge he stopped to light a cigarette. There was no traffic. Beneath him the Spree was greyly luminescent, disappearing into the distance towards the centre of Berlin between dark masses of trees. He set off along the footpath that ran beside it. He couldn’t see the water but he could sense its rustling movement, could hear its soft splashes as it encountered rocks and undergrowth. He must have walked for a couple of kilometres, his head full of images of violence and martyrdom, until eventually street lights appeared ahead. The path ended in a small park with a children’s play area – slide, swings, a seesaw, a sandpit. The prosaic sight depressed him. It brought him back to earth. Who was he? Who indeed were Oster, Heinz, Dohnányi, Schulenburg, Kordt and Beck? A handful against millions! They must be mad to think they could bring it off.
On the far side of the park was a main road where the last bus from Steglitz was waiting to depart for the city. He climbed the twisting staircase to the upper deck. A young couple occupied the front seat: his arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his cheek. He sat at the back and watched them. In the cold stale air of the bus he could smell the girl’s perfume. The engine whined, the bus swayed. When she started to kiss her boyfriend he looked away. The old longing returned. Ten minutes later, as they came into Schöneberg, he went back down the steps and stood on the platform until he saw a street he recognised. The bus slowed slightly and he jumped off it sideways, his legs absorbing the impact in half a dozen long strides until he was able to bring himself to a halt.
Her apartment block was above an automobile showroom. Behind the plate glass, in the harsh neon light, swastika banners hung from the ceiling between glittering Opels and Mercedes.
The entrance was unlocked. He climbed three floors, past the heavy closed doors of the other apartments. The landings smelled of dried flowers. There must be money somewhere for her to afford all this.
Almost as soon as he rang the bell she let him in. He wondered if she had been waiting for him.
‘Frau Winter.’
‘Herr Hartmann.’
She locked the door behind him.
She was wearing a kimono, the belt untied, her toenails painted the same brilliant scarlet as the silk. Her black hair, unpinned now that she was away from the office, fell all the way to the small of her back. The skin of her feet, of her stomach and between her breasts was alabaster-white. As he followed her into the bedroom he could hear a radio in the sitting room, tuned illegally to a foreign station, playing jazz. She slipped off her robe and left it pooled on the carpet, then lay on the bed and watched him undress. When he was naked he moved to switch off the light.
‘No. Leave it.’
She guided him into her at once. She never wanted them to take their time. It was one of the things he liked about her. Afterwards, as she always did, she went into the kitchen to fetch them a drink leaving him as usual to stare at the photograph on the nightstand of her dead husband. She never removed it, or laid it flat. Late twenties, infantry captain, handsome in his uniform in the photographer’s studio, his gloved hands resting on the hilt of his sword. Hartmann guessed he must be about the same age as him. Was that what this was about? Did she like to imagine it was the ghost of Captain Winter who was fucking her?
She came back into the bedroom naked, two cigarettes between her lips, a glass of whisky in either hand, a large envelope under her arm. She gave him his drink and cigarette, then dropped the envelope on to his chest. He looked down his nose at it without moving.
‘What’s this?’
‘See for yourself.’
The bed creaked as she climbed back on to it. She hugged her knees and watched as he opened it. He pulled out the pages and started to read.
‘My God …’ He sat up abruptly.
‘You want the English to fight? Show them that.’
DAY TWO
1
It took Legat a few moments to work out where he was.
His narrow mattress was hard; the room was not much larger than the metal bed frame. Regency striped wallpaper. A ceiling that sloped steeply at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees. No window. Instead a skylight directly above his head through which he found himself squinting at low grey cloud. Seagulls whirled across it like litter in the wind. It reminded him of a seaside boarding house.
He groped around the bedside table and opened his pocket watch. A quarter to nine. The Prime Minister had kept him up fetching documents for his speech until nearly three. Afterwards he had lain awake for hours. He must have fallen asleep just before dawn. He felt as if someone had rubbed grit in his eyes.
He threw off the sheet and blanket and swung his feet to the floor.
He was wearing a pair of duck-egg blue pyjamas from Gieves & Hawkes that Pamela had given him for his birthday. Over these he pulled a plaid dressing gown. Sponge bag in hand he opened the door and inspected the corridor. There were three bedrooms crammed into the attic of Number 10 for staff who had to be on call throughout the night. As far as he could tell he was the only occupant.
The pale green Ministry of Works linoleum was clammy underfoot. It flowed along the passage and into the bathroom. He pulled the light-cord. Again, no window. He had to run the tap for more than a minute before the water turned lukewarm. While he waited he placed a hand on either side of the basin and leaned towards the mirror. Increasingly these days the face he shaved was his father’s. A face from a sepia photograph: manly, resolute, oddly innocent. All that was lacking was the large dark moustache. He lathered his face with soap.
Back in his room he put on a clean shirt and threaded his cufflinks. He knotted his purple and dark-blue striped Balliol tie. Behold the Third Secretary! It was five years to the day since he had looked in the back pages of The Times and discovered the list of suc
cessful candidates in the 1933 Diplomatic Service Entrance Examinations. The names were printed in order of marks achieved: Legat, Reilly, Creswell, Shuckburgh, Gore-Booth, Grey, Malcom, Hogg … He had read it several times before it sank in. He had come top. A few lines of newsprint had turned him from an Oxford graduate with a first-class degree in Mods and Greats into a man of the world, an official high-flyer. He would be an Ambassador certainly; possibly even Permanent Under-Secretary. Everybody said so. Two days later, still in a state of euphoria, he had proposed to Pamela, and to his amazement she had accepted. If anything, her fantasies had outstripped his own. She would be Lady Legat. She would preside elegantly and effortlessly over receptions at the Paris Embassy in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré … They had both behaved like children. It had been madness. And now the world had grown old and ugly around them.
By the time he was fully dressed it was nine o’clock. There were six hours left until Hitler’s ultimatum expired.
He went in search of breakfast.
The narrow stairs led down to a landing outside the Prime Minister’s flat, and from there to the anteroom next to Chamberlain’s study. His intention was to slip out to the Lyons Corner House near Trafalgar Square – he could be there and back in thirty minutes – but before he could reach the main staircase he heard a door open behind him and a woman’s voice called out, ‘Mr Legat! Good morning!’
He stopped and turned to face her. ‘Good morning, Mrs Chamberlain.’
Her costume was funereal, charcoal grey and black, with a necklace of large beads of jet. ‘Did you manage to get some sleep?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Come and have some breakfast.’