Munich

‘I was just about to go out.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. We always give the duty secretary breakfast.’ She peered at him myopically. ‘It’s Hugh, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. But really—’

  ‘Nonsense. There’s such a crowd gathering outside already. It will be much easier for you to eat here.’

  She took his arm and gently tugged him after her. They passed through the state drawing rooms watched by various Whig and Tory statesmen, looking down their noses at them from heavy gilt frames. To his surprise she continued to hold on to him. They might have been fellow guests at a country-house weekend going in to dinner together. ‘I am so grateful for all that you young men do for my husband.’ Her tone was confiding. ‘You have no idea how much you lighten his burden. And don’t say you’re just doing your job – I know the personal cost of public service.’

  She opened the door to the dining room. It was not the grand official one but the more intimate, wood-panelled room with a table for twelve. At the far end, reading The Times, was the Prime Minister. He looked up at his wife and smiled. ‘Good morning, my dear.’ He nodded at Legat. ‘Good morning.’ He resumed reading.

  Mrs Chamberlain gestured to a side table where half a dozen dishes with silver covers were being kept warm on a hotplate. ‘Do please help yourself. Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She handed him a cup and went and sat next to the Prime Minister. Legat lifted the nearest cover. The greasy-sweet smell of the bacon reminded him how hungry he was. He went along the table filling his plate: scrambled eggs, mushrooms, sausages, black pudding. When he sat down, Mrs Chamberlain smiled at the size of his breakfast. ‘Are you married, Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Chamberlain.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘A boy and a girl.’

  ‘Exactly the same as us. How old?’

  ‘They’re three and two.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful! Ours are much older. Dorothy is twenty-seven – she was recently married. Frank is twenty-four. Do you like this coffee?’

  Legat took a sip; it was disgusting. ‘It’s very good, thank you.’

  ‘I make it with chicory.’

  The Prime Minister rustled his paper slightly and grunted. Mrs Chamberlain fell quiet and poured herself some tea. Legat resumed eating. For several minutes there was silence.

  ‘Ah, now this is interesting!’ The Prime Minister suddenly lifted his paper and folded it to the page he had been reading. ‘Could you make a note of this?’ Legat quickly put down his knife and fork and took out his notebook. ‘I shall need to write a letter to –’ he brought the small print up close to his eyes – ‘a Mr G. J. Scholey of 38 Dysart Avenue, Kingston-upon-Thames.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ Legat was bewildered.

  ‘He has a letter to the editor printed: “In the spring of this year I was observing a blackbird with a nest of eggs in a steep bank. Upon my approach each day the sitting bird would allow me to observe her at a few feet distant. And then one morning her familiar figure was missing. On peering over the bank I found her four young chicks cold and lifeless in the nest. A thin trail of blackish breast feathers led me down the bank to a small bush, under which I discovered the mangled remains of my old blackbird. And, intermingled in that trail of blackbird’s feathers were a few others – those which could only have come from the breast and flanks of a little owl …”’ The Prime Minister tapped the paper with his finger. ‘I have observed exactly the same behaviour by the little owls at Chequers.’

  Mrs Chamberlain said, ‘Oh, Neville, really! As if Hugh hasn’t got enough to do!’

  Legat said, ‘Actually, I believe it was my grandfather on my mother’s side who helped introduce the little owl to the British Isles.’

  ‘Did he really?’ For the first time the Prime Minister looked at him with genuine interest.

  ‘Yes, he brought several pairs back with him from India.’

  ‘What year would this have been?’

  ‘I should think about 1880.’

  ‘So in barely more than fifty years, this little bird has spread all over southern England! That is something to celebrate.’

  ‘Not if you’re a blackbird, apparently,’ said Mrs Chamberlain. ‘Do you have time for a walk, Neville?’ She looked across the table at Legat. ‘We always take a walk together after breakfast.’

  The Prime Minister put down his paper. ‘Yes, I need some air. But not the park, I’m afraid – not today. There are too many people. It will have to be the garden. Why don’t you come with us … Hugh?’

  He followed the Chamberlains as they descended the grand staircase arm in arm. When they reached the Private Secretaries’ corridor, the Prime Minister turned round to Legat. ‘Would you mind just checking whether there’s been a reply from Rome to my telegram last night?’

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’

  They continued on to the Cabinet Room while Legat ducked into his office. Miss Watson was behind her wall of files.

  ‘Has the Foreign Office messenger been over yet?’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen.’

  He checked with Syers, who said, ‘They don’t normally show up till eleven. How was last night?’

  ‘This morning, you mean.’

  ‘Christ. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bloody awful.’

  ‘And the PM?’

  ‘Fresh as a daisy.’

  ‘Irritating, isn’t it? I don’t know how he does it.’

  Cleverly was in his office, dictating a letter to his secretary. Legat put his head round the door. ‘Excuse me, sir. Has a telegram come in from the Rome embassy this morning? The Prime Minister wants to know.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything. Why? What is he expecting?’

  ‘He wrote to Lord Perth late last night.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Instructing him to ask Mussolini to intervene with Hitler.’

  Cleverly looked alarmed. ‘But that wasn’t authorised at Cabinet. Does the Foreign Secretary know?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Not sure? It’s your job to be sure!’ He reached for the telephone. Legat took advantage of his distraction to escape.

  Inside the Cabinet Room, one of the doors to the terrace was open. The Chamberlains had already descended the steps and were strolling across the lawn. Legat hurried after them.

  ‘No reply from Rome yet, Prime Minister.’

  ‘You are sure it was sent?’

  ‘Definitely. I stood in the cipher room and watched it go.’

  ‘Well then, we shall just have to be patient.’

  The Chamberlains resumed their walk. Legat felt awkward. He was conscious of Cleverly standing at his office window, talking on the telephone, watching him. Nevertheless, he fell in behind them. The weather was still mild and gloomy, the big trees turning brown. Drifts of fallen leaves lay across the damp grass and the flower beds. From beyond the high wall came the sound of traffic. The Prime Minister stopped beside a bird table. From his pocket he pulled a piece of toast he had taken from the rack at breakfast. He broke it into pieces and laid them out carefully, then stepped back and folded his arms. He brooded.

  ‘What a day this promises to be,’ he said quietly. ‘You know, I would gladly stand up against that wall and be shot if only I could prevent war.’

  ‘Neville – really – please don’t say such things!’ Mrs Chamberlain looked as if she were about to burst into tears.

  The Prime Minister said to Legat, ‘You were too young to fight in the last war, and I was too old. In some ways that made it worse.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘It was an absolute agony to me to see such suffering and to be so powerless. Three-quarters of a million men killed from this country alone. Imagine it! And it wasn’t just they who suffered, but their parents and their wives and children, their families, their friends … Afterwards, whenever I saw a war memorial, or visited one of those vast cemeteries in France where so many dear friends are buried, I always vow
ed that if ever I was in a position to prevent such a catastrophe from happening again, I would do anything – sacrifice anything – to maintain peace. You can understand that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This is sacred to me.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And it all happened only twenty years ago!’ He fixed Legat with a gaze almost fanatical in its intensity. ‘It’s not simply that this country is militarily and psychologically unprepared for war – that can be remedied – we are remedying it. It’s rather that I truly fear for the spiritual health of our people if they don’t see their leaders doing absolutely everything they can to prevent a second great conflict. Because of one thing I can assure you: if it comes, the next war will be infinitely worse than the last, and they will require great fortitude to survive it.’

  Suddenly, he turned on his heel and started marching back across the lawn to Number 10. Mrs Chamberlain stared helplessly at Legat for a moment, then went after him. ‘Neville!’ The energy of the old man was more than merely remarkable, thought Legat: it was disconcerting. The Prime Minister trotted up the dozen steps to the terrace and disappeared into the Cabinet Room. His wife was not far behind.

  Legat followed at a distance. On the terrace he stopped. Through the open door he could see the Chamberlains embracing. The Prime Minister was stroking her back in reassurance. After a while he stepped away slightly. He held her by the shoulders and stared at her intently. Legat couldn’t see her face. ‘Go on, Annie,’ he said gently. He smiled at her, brushed something from her cheek. ‘We’ll be all right.’ She nodded and left without turning round.

  The Prime Minister beckoned Legat into the room. He pulled a chair out from the Cabinet table. ‘Sit down,’ he ordered.

  Legat sat.

  Chamberlain stayed on his feet. He patted his inside pockets, pulled out a cigar case, tipped out a cigar and snipped off the end with his thumb. He struck a match and lit the cigar, sucking at it until it was well alight. With a vigorous shake of his hand he extinguished the match and threw it into an ashtray. ‘Take this down.’

  Legat reached for a sheet of headed notepaper, pen and ink.

  ‘To Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler …’

  His nib scratched across the paper.

  ‘After reading your letter I feel certain that you can get all essentials without war and without delay.’ Legat waited. The Prime Minister paced up and down behind him. ‘I am ready to come to Berlin myself at once to discuss arrangements for transfer with you and representatives of the Czech Government …’ He paused until he saw Legat had caught up. ‘… together with representatives of France and Italy if you desire. I feel convinced that we could reach agreement in a week.’

  At the end of the room the door opened and Horace Wilson slipped in. He nodded to the Prime Minister and took a seat in the far corner of the table. Chamberlain resumed.

  ‘I cannot believe that you will take the responsibility of starting a world war which may end civilisation, for the sake of a few days’ delay in settling this long-standing problem.’ He stopped.

  Legat glanced round at him. ‘Is that it, Prime Minister?’

  ‘That’s it. Sign it with my name, and have it sent care of Sir Nevile Henderson in Berlin.’ He turned to Wilson. ‘All right?’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Legat began to stand.

  Chamberlain said, ‘Wait. There’s another. This one is to Signor Mussolini.’ He took a few more puffs on his cigar. ‘I have today addressed a last appeal to Herr Hitler to abstain from force to settle the Sudeten problem, which, I feel sure, can be settled by a short discussion and will give him the essential territory, population and protection for both Sudetens and Czechs during transfer. I have offered myself to go at once to Berlin to discuss arrangements with German and Czech representatives, and if the Chancellor desires, representatives also of Italy and France.’

  Across the table, Legat could see Wilson nodding slowly.

  The Prime Minister continued. ‘I trust Your Excellency will inform the German Chancellor that you are willing to be represented and urge him to agree to my proposal which will keep all our peoples out of war. I have already guaranteed that Czech promises shall be carried out and feel confident full agreement could be reached in a week.’

  Wilson said, ‘Are you going to inform the Cabinet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that constitutional?’

  ‘I don’t know, and frankly at this stage, what does it matter? Either this will work and everyone will be too relieved afterwards to quibble, or it won’t and they will be too busy trying on gas masks to care.’ He said to Legat, ‘Will you take those over to the Foreign Office and make sure they are dispatched at once?’

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ He gathered the papers together.

  ‘At any rate,’ Chamberlain resumed to Wilson, ‘my conscience will be clear. The world will see I have done everything humanly possible to avoid war. The responsibility from now on rests solely with Hitler.’

  Legat quietly closed the door.

  2

  Hartmann sat at his desk and pretended to work. In the open file in front of him was a copy of the Führer’s latest telegram to President Roosevelt, dispatched the previous evening. It justified invasion on the grounds that 214,000 Sudeten Germans had so far been forced to flee their homes to escape the outrageous violence and bloody terror inflicted on them by the Czechs. Countless dead, thousands of injured, tens of thousands of detainees and prisoners, desolate villages … How much of this was true? Some of it? None of it? Hartmann had no idea. Truth was like any other material necessary for the making of war: it had to be beaten and bent and cut into the required shape. Nowhere in the telegram was there any hint of compromise.

  For the hundredth time he checked his watch. It was three minutes past eleven.

  Over by the windows, von Nostitz and von Rantzau were also at their desks. They were staring down into the street as if waiting for something to happen. Neither had uttered more than a dozen words all morning. Nostitz, who worked in the Protocol Department, was a Party member; Rantzau, who had been due to go to the London embassy as Second Secretary until the Sudeten crisis blew up, was not. They weren’t such bad fellows, Hartmann thought. He had mixed with their type all his life: patriotic, conservative, clannish. For them, Hitler was like some crude gamekeeper who had mysteriously contrived to take over the running of their family estates: once installed, he had proved an unexpected success, and they had consented to tolerate his occasional bad manners and lapses into violence in return for a quiet life. Now they had discovered they couldn’t get rid of him and they looked as if they were starting to regret it. Hartmann briefly considered confiding in them but decided it was too risky.

  The shrilling of his telephone made all three men jump. He picked up the receiver. ‘Hartmann.’

  ‘Paul, it’s Kordt. Come to my office immediately.’

  The line went dead. Hartmann hung up.

  Rantzau couldn’t keep the anxiety out of his voice. ‘Is something going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m wanted over the road.’

  Hartmann closed the Roosevelt file. Beneath it was the envelope he had been given by Frau Winter. He ought to have hidden it somewhere when he went back to his apartment to change but he couldn’t think of any place secure enough. Now he slipped it into an empty folder, unlocked the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk and buried it in a pile of documents. He locked the drawer and stood. It struck him that if things went wrong he might never see his colleagues again. He felt an unexpected rush of affection. Not such bad fellows … He said, ‘If I hear anything more, I’ll let you know.’

  He collected his hat and hurried out of the door before his face could betray him or they could ask him more questions.

  Although he had been made Foreign Minister in February, Ribbentrop still preferred to operate out of his old headquarters on the opposite side of Wilhelmstrasse, in the massive Prussian Ministry of
State building. His staff shared the same floor as the Deputy Führer, Rudolf Hess, and Hartmann was obliged to make his way past half a dozen brown-uniformed Nazi Party officials, huddled in conversation, before he reached Kordt’s office. Kordt himself opened the door, beckoned him inside, and locked it after him. Normally he had a secretary but she wasn’t there. He must have sent her away.

  ‘Oster just came to see me. He says it’s happening.’ The Rhinelander’s eyes were blinking rapidly behind his thick glasses. He opened his desk drawer and took out a pair of handguns. ‘He gave me these.’

  He laid them on the desk carefully. Hartmann took one. It was the latest Walther – small, only about 15 centimetres long, easy to conceal. He weighed it in his hand, clicked the safety catch off and on. ‘Loaded?’

  Kordt nodded. Suddenly he started giggling like a schoolboy. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never fired a gun in my life. Have you?’

  ‘I’ve hunted since I was a boy.’ Hartmann took aim at the filing cabinet. His finger tightened around the trigger. ‘Rifles, mostly. Shotguns.’

  ‘Isn’t it the same thing?’

  ‘Not exactly. But the principle is the same. So what’s going on?’

  ‘Oster gave your copy of Hitler’s reply to Chamberlain to General Halder in Army Headquarters this morning.’

  ‘Who’s Halder?’

  ‘Beck’s successor as Chief of the General Staff. Halder was appalled, according to Oster. He’s definitely with us – even more opposed to Hitler than Beck.’

  ‘He’ll order the Army to move?’

  Kordt shook his head. ‘He hasn’t the authority. He’s in charge of planning, not operations. He’s going to talk to Brauchitsch – as Commander-in-Chief, Brauchitsch has the power. Would you mind putting that thing down? You’re making me nervous.’

  Hartmann lowered the gun. ‘And Brauchitsch is sympathetic?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You’re to go over to the Chancellery, exactly as we agreed last night.’

  ‘On what pretext?’

  ‘The British Embassy just rang. It seems Chamberlain has written another letter to Hitler – God knows what it says – and Henderson wants an appointment to deliver it by hand to the Führer as soon as possible. The request has to be cleared by Ribbentrop, and he’s with the Führer now. I thought you could go over and inform him.’