An Infinity of Mirrors

  The Gestapo driver raced ahead, then jumped out of the car and caught Captain Strasse in his arms just before he reached the corner of the rue de Presbourg. He pushed the Captain onto the floor in the back, got in again and drove quickly to 31 bis Avenue Foch.

  The pills had not arrived; transport had been delayed because of sabotage. The cramps started, and Strasse began to vomit steadily.

  At eleven forty-eight P.M. Fräulein Franzblau called from the rue des Saussaies and he made himself take the call. “Strasse.”

  “Captain Strasse, Major Rau in Amsterdam has just called us back. The Karmo birth records were available on parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. Karmo is not a Jew. She is one hundred percent racially pure, I am happy to say.”

  Twenty

  The Allied armies were advancing across France. All freight and railroad stations in and around Paris had been destroyed by bomber attacks and by the persistent sabotage of railroad workers. The problems of food, power, and water supply were close to insoluble. The power supply from the Massif Central had been cut off, and Paris had to depend for light and power on a switchover from the Kembs power station on the upper Rhine. The city depended for food upon the black market, and over eighty percent of the population was starving on less than minimum subsistence levels.

  Fräulein Nortnung wasn’t hungry, but she was very depressed when she reached the flat at midday on July 20th. The office of the BdS has been closed for half a day. Piocher took her shoes off and rubbed her feet while she drank twenty-five-year-old Scotch whiskey. “Why do you rub my feet?” she asked listlessly. “I am hardly ever on my feet. I sit down all the time. You should rub my ass.”

  “Gets the circulation going all over,” Piocher said. “You’re very down tonight, liebchen. What’s the matter?”

  “You know why I’m home?”

  “No.”

  “The office is closed for half a day.”

  “Really?”

  “You know why it’s closed for half a day? Remember that sweet little guy, the four-four-b fellow, Captain Strasse?”

  “A sweet little guy?”

  “Yes, you know the one.”

  “If he’s a sweet little guy, what would you call Caligula?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “All right. What about Strasse?”

  “I can’t get it through my head. He killed himself.”

  “Ah?”

  “What a tragedy.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Should I say it was a cute thing? That’s what you say when people shoot themselves. What a tragedy.”

  “I meant why did he kill himself?”

  “Who knows? Did you ever see anyone with more to live for? He would have made Standartenfuehrer for sure. He was only about twenty-seven years old and he was marvelous at his job.”

  “Go in and run a tub for yourself.”

  “Why?” He stared at her with his hard eyes. “All right, Carlie. I’ll run the tub,”

  “Best thing for you. I’ll be away all night and before I go—” She jumped up at once.

  “I’ll run the tub right now.” She thundered out of the room on her gorgeous and substantial legs. He waited until he heard the bath water running, and then telephoned Military Headquarters.

  At twelve forty-seven P.M. on July 20,1944, Piocher picked Veelee up in his car at the Place de l’Alma and then drove slowly along the quai.

  “The St. Quentin reseau has checked out your information and it is quite accurate,” Piocher said. “We will make the strikes tonight.”

  “Very good. Give me the names of the two men.”

  “All the locomotive shops and the tank assembly plants will go up. No bombers have ever been able to get in, but we’ll make it on foot and make it stick, thanks to you.”

  Veelee said nothing.

  “There are no longer two men, General. The second man, the man who gave the order to the police to arrest your son, killed himself last night. He was Captain Strasse, head of Gestapo Section four-four-b.” Veelee moaned softly. “The first man, the man who had Strasse issue the order to arrest your son, is the BdS, SS Standartenfuehrer Eberhard Drayst.”

  “Do you know why, Piocher? Does anyone know why?”

  Piocher coughed, then pursed his lips as he stared carefully at the road ahead. “Drayst is somewhat unbalanced about your wife,” he answered. “He tried to rape her in Berlin during the November pogroms in thirty-eight.” Veelee grunted heavily, then turned to Piocher, his monocle glittering. “Your wife will confirm it, General,” Piocher said reassuringly. It began to rain lightly, and he started the windshield wiper. “If I can be of any help to you, General—”

  “We have our own plans,” Veelee said, “but there are things I will need. Civilian clothes, for one.”

  “Size?”

  “For Drayst, and some bandages.” He spoke on in detail; he would need everything before six o’clock.

  “Drayst has shut down his office for half a day. He will be alone. He is working on a report and there will be no one else on his floor.”

  “Thank you.” They did not speak again. The car left Veelee at the Etoile at the head of Avenue Kléber, and he hurried toward the Hôtel Majestic.

  For ten days the men who had plotted the Fuehrer’s assassination waited uneasily and uncertainly in the Bendlerstrasse. The attempt was to have been made on July 11th, then on July 15th. By the 20th, they all knew that they could not wait because it would be impossible to keep the secret any longer.

  The Fuehrer’s headquarters at Rastenburg in East Prussia, called the Wolf’s Lair, was in a dark forest, deep in perpetual twilight under the camouflage of heavy trees. Guns, bayonets, electric fences, barbed-wire gates, and abnormal suspicion kept the world out. Not even Keitel and Jodl, who had been sentenced to stand beside the Fuehrer for the rest of his life, could be passed into the Wolf’s Lair without being checked and rechecked at each of the series of entrances.

  At eight-ten in the morning of July 20th, Lieutenant-Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg was passed through the entrances carrying a two-pound bomb wrapped in a shirt in his briefcase. At noon, after breakfast with the Headquarters Commandant, Lieutenant-Colonel Streve, a fellow conspirator, Stauffenberg was received by Keitel.

  Von Stauffenberg had lost parts of both hands in the war, so before leaving Keitel’s office for the Fuehrer’s briefing room he excused himself, went into a toilet and, using special tongs, broke the acid capsule which would set the fuse of the bomb. Then he rejoined Keitel and they walked sedately into the night world of the Teutonic forest to the Gaestebaracke, where the day’s briefings were to be held. As they entered the room, General Heusinger, Director of Military Operations, had already begun his report to the Fuehrer on conditions on the Eastern front. Stauffenberg moved to the right-hand corner of the mapstrewn table which held the Fuehrer’s attention, slid the briefcase under it, to the right of the officer sitting there, and then left the room. The officer was Colonel Brandt, unable to escape destiny, the ever unknowing accomplice who as a favor to Veelee had so willingly and guilelessly transported the bomb package into the Fuehrer’s plane. The briefcase was in Colonel Brandt’s way, so he pushed it against the heavy table leg on the side farthest from the Fuehrer. General Heusinger had reached the final section of his report—“Wenn jetzt nicht endlich die Heeresgruppe vom Peipussee zuruechgenommen wird, dann wirden wir eine Katastrophe”—when the bomb exploded, at twelve-fifty P.M.

  In Berlin the revolutionaries waited for word that the bomb had been exploded, but the chief signals officers of Rastenburg, General Fellgiebel in command of the Communications Center, panicked when he saw the wavering line of wounded men, their faces smudged and some of them in shock, as they stumbled out of the Gaestebaracke. The Fuehrer, who was in the lead, was supported by Keitel. Fellgiebel did not notify his fellow conspirators at the Bendlerstrasse, nor, most importantly, did he blow up the communications installation as planned. He was to be executed by the Fuehr
er for treason just the same.

  General Olbricht, Chief of Staff of the Home Army, had alerted the Commandant of Berlin and the unit commanders at the camps at Doeberitz, Jueterbog, Krampnitz, and Wuensdorf to stand by for instant assignment. General Hoepner, who had been publicly cashiered by the Fuehrer and forbidden to wear his uniform, brought it to the Bendlerstrasse in a suitcase and changed into it in a lavatory next to Olbricht’s office. General Beck wore a rumpled brown tweed suit. The plotters assembled one by one in serried ranks from Field Marshal von Witzleben down to Lieutenant von Hammerstein. By two o’clock they had become apprehensive. At three-twelve P.M. General Thiele of Olbricht’s staff got through to Rastenburg and received an inconclusive report that there had been an explosion in which many had been killed and wounded. At three thirty-seven P.M. Stauffenberg’s adjutant, calling from the military airfield at Rangsdorf to ask irritatedly why no car had been sent to meet them, told Olbricht’s chief of staff, who took the call, “The Fuehrer is dead.”

  At four-ten von Stauffenberg was on the telephone to all field commanders who were part of the conspiracy. He reached General von Stuelpnagel in Paris at four twenty-seven and repeated his prepared message in staccato fashion: “Hitler is dead. You must seize all wireless stations and information centers. If there is SS opposition it must be broken.” Count von Stauffenberg had a light and pleasant voice and none of the happy tenor of it changed under the pressure of the excitement, then or later. “It is entirely likely that Hitler’s headquarters will issue counter-orders. They may have already done so, but they are not to be obeyed. They are not authentic. Field Marshal von Witzleben and the Wehrmacht have taken over all executive power. The Reich is in danger, and as always in its greatest need, the army takes over.”

  General von Stuelpnagel had actually received word of the assassination before the leaders of the revolt at the Bendlerstrasse. His Commander in Chief for Gross-Paris, General Baron von Boineburg-Langsfeld, had gotten a call at two thirty-five P.M. from a Swedish countess who told him that the Swedish radio had reported that an attempt had been made on Hitler’s life. General Boineburg had advised von Stuelpnagel, from the Hôtel Méance, and then had asked if any such word had come through the regular communications channels. Veelee was with the Military Governor when von Stauffenberg called.

  When General von Stuelpnagel rang off he looked up at Veelee, swallowed hard, and blinked. “Hitler is dead, thank God,” he said, and Veelee sat down slowly as though to conserve himself. “Kluge has been notified.” Stuelpnagel added in a worried voice.

  “To have everything depend upon Field Marshal Kluge makes it seem as though Germany were cursed,” Veelee said intently.

  “Kluge will hold fast this time.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Kluge hated Hitler and he guaranteed to General Beck that if Hitler were removed he would surrender the armies.”

  “If I may say so, sir, Field Marshal Kluge will need to see the corpse and feel its coldness. Unless he is forced, the Field Marshal cannot make such a decision. He feeds on fright, sir. He will have to be forced.”

  “Force?” The idea amused Stuelpnagel. “How do we force the Field Marshal who is now Commander in Chief of the armies of the west?”

  “We must arrest the SS, sir.”

  “Rhode!”

  “When the SS is in jail, when we line them up against a wall at Fresnes and shoot them, Kluge will then realize that the Fuehrer is really dead.”

  Stuelpnagel turned in his chair, picked up the telephone, and spoke with his secretary. “I want to talk to the Military Commander for Gross-Paris, please.” He reconsidered. “No, change that. Ask the Military Commander to come to this office, please. And the Chief, and von Teuchert, von Bargotsky and von Falkenhausen. You too. I want to dictate an order.” Veelee was on his feet, his monocle glittering, staring fixedly through his one eye. “Since this was your idea, Rhode, is it your intention to wish to engage in the operation?”

  “Yes, sir. I request permission to arrest SS Standartenfuehrer Drayst, sir.” Stuelpnagel nodded as his secretary, Countess Podewills, entered. In a firm voice he dictated: “From Military Commander, France, to Military Commander for Gross-Paris. Order: SS and SD have made a putsch in the Reich aiming at the liquidation of the Fuehrer. Arrest immediately the SS and SD and disarm them, as well as the SS chief for France, General Koltrastt, with his staff. Secure all office papers. In case of resistance, force is to be applied without consideration.” He smiled wryly at Veelee. “This arrest is going to be hard on Boineburg—Koltrastt has some secret source for obtaining an unlimited supply of Importens, Boineburg’s favorite cigars.”

  The meeting convened at five-o-three P.M., and Stuelpnagel read his order to the assembled officers. There was no comment except from General Boineburg. “I suggest, sir, that inasmuch as the SD headquarters are on a main traffic artery and the sight of Germans fighting Germans might not be the best thing for the French to see, it would be better to conduct the operation later on in the evening.”

  ‘Very good. When?”

  “Ten-thirty? The SS would all be in their quarters ready for the plucking.”

  “Ten-thirty it is, then.” Von Stuelpnagel nodded to Colonel von Linstow, his Chief of Staff, to take over. In turn, Linstow bowed gracefully to General von Boineburg. “Your show, sir,” he said.

  “We’ll use the Second Battalion of the Motorized Rifles of the First Security Regiment and reinforce them with armored cars,” von Boineburg said. “They are just over the river at the Ecole Militaire. They’ll be formed at ten-fifteen in front of the Porte Dauphine at the foot of Avenue Foch and at the end of the Boulevard Lannes, where General Koltrastt has his headquarters. This is only two streets from HSPF headquarters and four streets from the BdS. Other units of the First will overpower and arrest all Gestapo posts and those assigned SS resistance pockets which are a part of the preparation for the defense of the city.”

  “For the sake of protocol, which will concern the Field Marshal more than anyone else,” Stuelpnagel said laconically, “I would suggest that the arrests of the HSPF and the BdS be made by general officers. If you have no objections, General von Boineburg, I will assign the arrest of the BdS to General Rhode.”

  “Very good, sir,” Boineburg said. “My aide, General Brehmer, the ZGV will arrest the HSPF, and I’ll assign Colonel von Kraewel to General von Rhode for the BdS. We will take both of them in custody, with their staffs, to the Hôtel Continental next to my headquarters. All remaining officers will be transported in custody to the Fresnes-Wehrmacht prison. The enlisted men will go to the Fort de l’Est.”

  “Move fast, please,” von Stuelpnagel said. “They are two thousand heavily armed men and it is quite possible that the navy and the Luftwaffe ground units might try to resist the arrests with arms. Thank you, gentlemen, and good luck.”

  Six minutes after the officers had left, General Beck telephoned from the Bendlerstrasse.

  “Stuelpnagel, I call to tell you that contrary to a previous report, the attempt on the life of Hitler has failed.”

  “Failed?”

  “We cannot stop now. We have lost the fifty-one percent chance to bring it off, but we can still do it. Are you with us?”

  “I have ordered the arrest of the SS here.”

  There was a pause while Beck considered all that this meant. His voice shook. “Germany will never forget you for that.”

  Stuelpnagel rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “What about von Kluge?”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I will call him now,” General Beck said. “And this time he must stand with us.”

  “I will have your call put through from here.” Von Stuelpnagel picked up the other telephone, gave the order for the call, and when Kluge picked up his telephone Stuelpnagel advised him that he was on the line. For a few minutes he listened while General Beck spoke to the Field Marshal and then he hung up slowly, his eyes clouded with dread a
nd doubt. He stared blankly out of the window for some time until Countess Podewills came in with two teletyped dispatches. He read them and then telephoned Veelee. “An order has come though from Field Marshal von Witzleben,” he said. “It says: “The elimination of SS and SD resistance is to be undertaken ruthlessly.’ I wanted you to know that you had made your excellent suggestion first.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “There are two other bits of news. I have been invited to dinner with Field Marshal von Kluge at La Roche Guyon.” He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. “And Hitler is still alive.”

  Twenty-One

  Von Kluge, who had taken over the command of Army Group B from General Rommel, had left his headquarters in St. Germain, where he was Commander of the Armies in the West, to his Chief of Staff, General Gunther von Blumentritt, and had retained Rommel’s Chief of Staff, General Dr. Hans Speidel, at La Roche Guyon. When Kluge had taken over the command of the West from Rundstedt on July 6th, he had immediately sent word to General Beck that if the Fuehrer died he would support the army putsch. This had also been conveyed to Rommel, but he neither trusted nor respected Kluge and informed Stuelpnagel that he was going to take independent action if Kluge failed to keep his word. Unfortunately, on July 17th Rommel was severely injured in an automobile accident, and Kluge took over his group.

  Army Group B headquarters was in a château built against the cliffs on the north bank of the Seine, between Mantes la Jolie and Vernon. Rommel had fashioned himself a modest apartment on the ground floor, adjoining a rose garden. His study was a recreation of French culture; it had splendid tapestries and an inlaid Renaissance desk on which Louvois had signed the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685. The Field Marshal’s staff was purposely kept small: eleven officers, including two historians. Contrary to regulations, there was no National Socialist political officer—a position which had been introduced into the Wehrmacht in 1943 to whip discontented spirits into line.